The First Immortal
by PaulBlartorias
Summary: Artorias Nym of Team Gwyn is a third year student at Shade Academy. Life's had its ups and downs, sure - but he's on track for a good career as a Huntsman. But when the secrets of Remnant begin to surface at the 40th Vytal Festival, he gets dragged down with them.
1. Prologue

A faunus leaned against the wall of a coffee shop. Two wolfish ears stuck out from the young man's silver hair. He attracted one or two glances – whether because of his faunus heritage or because he was a huntsman, he wasn't sure. Or a huntsman-in-training, rather. Could civilians even tell the difference?

Absentmindedly, he touched the hilt of his greatsword, sheathed on his back, and the handle of his dagger. Yet another habit his leader had drilled into him. Always know where your weapons are.

He was joined soon by a shorter, older woman, with dark hair. Her name was Morgan Nym, his mother, but the only resemblance between the two was their blue eyes. A fresh cup of coffee was in her hands.

"You sure you don't want a cup?" she asked.

Artorias Nym shrugged, kicking off the wall, and they set off, walking aimlessly down the road. "Gil'd have my head for drinking coffee so late."

Or at all, really, although the occasional cup wouldn't hurt. Coffee, Gilderoy had told them, was a crutch. A reliance on it could get you killed. What if you were ambushed in your sleep, and had no time for a cup to wake you up?

 _Whatever, man,_ he'd said. But it had been easy enough to give it up, just to keep Gil happy, so he'd abided by the rule and had barely touched coffee ever since.

Morgan smiled and shrugged. "It's decaf, Arty, don't worry. It won't keep me up."

"That could be an issue," Artorias smiled. "We have a lot to catch up on."

"And half a year to talk about it."

"I'll be at Beacon for most of that, but yeah, fair call," he said. "I'm sorry I haven't really kept in touch."

She waved it off. "It's not a problem. As long as I knew you were alive and well, that was enough for me." She lifted the paper cup to her lips and drank. "But I'll certainly get as much as I can from you tonight. How about your team?"

"I'm partnered with our leader, Gilderoy Ornstein. He's strict, and very militant, and he's lived all his life in Vacuo – I know, doesn't make sense, right? It's a surprise no one's broken a bottle on his skull yet. Gods know I've wanted to, once or twice."

"Any redeeming qualities?" she laughed.

"Eh…" Artorias trailed off, thinking hard. "He's better than his boyfriend? That guy was a real asshole, tried to bully me for these a few times." He gestured to his wolf ears. _Do I really have nothing good to say about my own partner?_

 _I guess he doesn't want to see me dead. Does that even count, though?_

"I'm sorry," Morgan said.

"Don't be," Artorias snorted. "That one's all on father. And Smough was…" Well, he wasn't bad at bullying, that was for sure. But he'd done a pretty poor job of it in Artorias' case. "He was manageable."

She smiled and took another sip from her cup. "I suppose you're right."

"Ciaran's a little different. She's quiet, unless she's in class – she's all studious and stuff, so she asks questions all the time. But if she's angry, she gets really loud, actually. I seem to be really good at making her angry," he laughed. "Don't get me wrong, though. It means a lot that she cares enough to get upset with me."

"That doesn't sound too healthy," she mused. "I know it's not really my place." She scrambled to apologise, her eyes growing wide.

Artorias shook his head. "No, no, you more than deserve to voice your opinion. You're my mother."

"I wasn't a very good parent."

He shrugged. "I turned out alright." _And seriously, remember father? That was a real mess._ "Look, like you said, I just got back, I'm in town all semester. You've got plenty of time to mope later, if you have to."

She frowned, but nodded. "And your last teammate?"

"Ah, Gough." A broad grin spread across his face. "He's everyone's best friend. Always the mediator – I suppose it hurts him more than anyone else when the rest of us fight, but it never shows. Like, first day at Shade? Ciaran and I got in an argument, before any of us knew each other – something petty about whose weapons were cooler, but man, it got heated. Then Gough came along, gave us a real stern talking to – I thought he was a teacher, actually, he's all tall and mature and all that – where was I? Right, he talked us both down, then he gave us a real big hug. Ended up with C sitting on his shoulders all through orientation." That was a fond memory.

A wistful smile crossed his mother's face. "It's certainly a lovely story."

The sound of an explosion reached the two, and Artorias reflexively reached for his sword. "You hear that?"

She nodded. "What do you think's going on?"

Artorias spun, spotting a plume of smoke reaching into the sky.

"I mean, it's not like I've got any details or anything, but my money's on trouble. Sorry, Mum – I love you, I'll talk to you soon, duty calls."

She nodded in understanding. He gave a thumbs up and sprinted off into the night. He barely heard his mother's response.

"Be safe."

/-/

Artorias reached the docks just in time to see the criminal – or, at least, he assumed it was the criminal – fire off a round from his cane at the girl in the red hood. A monkey faunus lay at the crook's feet, and, peering closer, Artorias recognised him – it was Sun Wukong. He'd not seen the kid since he'd left for Haven.

 _Well, try not to die, man._

A few Bullheads came swooping in, and one lifted off, a cargo container of dust attached to its underside, but Artorias' eyes were glued to the man in the coat, walking away at a pace only just short of frantic. _There's always an escape vehicle_. He leapt atop a cargo container, and from there to a warehouse roof, for a better view – ah, there, a grounded Bullhead.

He ran to it, weaving between a few cargo containers to avoid the criminal's view. He ducked down and grabbed the mask of an unconscious White Fang mook as he went, slipping it on. The wolf faunus reached the bullhead before his target, and entered, nodding to the two White Fang grunts already there. Apparently they either didn't notice, or perhaps didn't care that, aside from the mask, he was dressed nothing like them.

 _Idiots._

Outside, two of the other Bullheads were torn apart by green laser beams. _The hell?_

"These kids just keep getting weirder," the man in the coat muttered, finally reaching the vehicle. He pulled the door closed with the crook of his cane, then turned to face Artorias and the two members of the White Fang at his side.

He rolled his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, then glared furiously at the two faunus at Artorias' side. "So, did either of you happen to notice that this one isn't with us?"

They glanced at each other.

"Blue cloak isn't exactly regulation uniform. Seriously? Nothing? I'm better off with Hei's men."

Artorias slammed his fists into the two grunts' faces. They hit the floor with a satisfying thud, knocked out cold. He intercepted the man's cane with the back of his gauntleted left hand, drawing his greatsword with his right.

"Sorry, I kinda missed the memo," he grinned. "All of them, actually. Am I supposed to know who you are?"

"And there I was, thinking I had such a _fantastic_ reputation," the criminal growled. In the confined space of the Bullhead, Artorias' larger weapon was less effective than his opponent's nimble cane, but he kept pace well enough.

"You certainly keep a good image," Artorias complimented, knocking the cane away to open the criminal's guard.

" _Thank_ you." He swayed to the side, narrowly avoiding Artorias' strike. He followed up by slamming his cane into the wolf faunus' side. Artorias grunted in pain.

"Jerry, you wouldn't mind opening the side door, would you? _Trying_ to get rid of a guest back here," he called into the cockpit. Artorias used the distraction push through the man's defences again to slash across his chest. His aura flared to protect him, and he growled, returning his focus to Artorias.

"My name's Perry!" the pilot called, but the door swung open nevertheless.

The criminal feinted left, then swung low, hooking Artorias' right ankle with the crook of his cane and tripping him up. The wolf went with the flow, his right shoulder hitting the ground first. He let momentum roll him to his feet quickly, but his opponent capitalised on the advantage with a swift kick to the chest, sending him tumbling out of the Bullhead.

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Wolf!"

 _Bastard._

Artorias let out a pained gasp when he hit the ground, the borrowed White Fang mask shattering on impact. He lay there for a minute, perhaps two, before he started clambering to his feet. His head hurt from where it had struck the hard concrete – nothing aura wouldn't fix, but for now, he'd have to live with it.

"Hey, you alri- oh hey Art! How've you been, man?" Sun rushed over, laying a supportive hand on his shoulder.

Artorias sighed, rubbing the back of his pained head. "I've been better."

"Yeah. Looked a bit rough. Dude, I had no idea you were here! Come on, the others are over by the warehouses."

"The others?"

"Yeah, they're cool. I mean, I only really know one of them, Blake – you probably saw her, actually, when'd you show up, by the way? Anyway, she's really cool, and she's a faunus, but that's a secret though, and not one of those 'I'm gonna tell Gough because I tell Gough everything' secrets. Be cool about it?"

"I got it. I arrived at about the time Red got blown up."

"Oh, her name's Ruby. She's a bit of a weapons nut, and she likes my gunchucks, and she probably saved my life, so, you know, she's alright."

"Sun, everyone likes your gunchucks."

"Oh yeah."

They rounded a corner. Ruby and a ginger girl were sitting together atop some wooden crates. A girl with black hair and a bow – Blake, Artorias assumed – sat across from them. A few police had arrived on the scene already.

"The last one's kinda weird, but you see that thing she did to the Bullheads?"

"With the laser beams? That was her?"

"Yeah, so she's kind of a total badass. Socially awkward, not in the quiet way like C is, though. She's really… intense."

"Got it."

They approached the girls, and Sun introduced him. "Hey everyone, the guy that Torchwick kicked outta the ship's here!"

"The name's Artorias, the Wolf Knight," he waved.

"Dude. Not cool," Sun punched him lightly. "Nobody calls you that."

"Actually-"

"Not. Cool." Sun emphasised.

"Salutations, Artorias the Wolf Knight!" The ginger girl shot to her feet and waved, a bright smile on her face. Artorias gave Sun a satisfied smirk. "My name is Penny! It's a pleasure to meet you."

"I see what you mean," Artorias whispered.

Penny peered closer at him. "Are you and Sun having a _friends'_ moment _?_ " she asked.

He shared a confused glance with Sun. "Uh, yeah, I guess so?"

"That sounds wonderful! Can I be your friend too?"

Behind her, he saw Blake shaking her head so vigorously he was worried she might snap her neck.

"…sure?"

"Oh, sensational! Two more friends! It would seem that I am on a roll today!"

"How did you know to be here?" Blake asked.

"There was an explosion. Figured it'd be something important."

"That's how me and Penny got here too!" Ruby cheered. "I'm Ruby. And that's Blake."

"Hey," said Blake.

"Dude, what're you doing in Vale? You here for the tournament?" Sun asked.

"Yeah. The rest of the team went straight up to Beacon – you know how Gil is – but I came into town to visit Mum."

"Oh, you're one of the exchange students?" Ruby asked. "What weapons you got?"

"Eh, big sword, small dagger, nothing special." He didn't mention his gauntlet – best to keep some things up his sleeve. "Why?"

"I like weapons," Ruby said simply. "And Weiss, my partner, she wanted to spy on the competition – don't tell her I said that – so, you know, I thought I might help her with that."

"Weiss? As in Schnee?"

"…yeah. How'd you know?"

He shrugged. "Speak of the devil…"

Ruby looked over her shoulder – two girls he'd never seen before were walking towards them. One was a blonde he didn't recognise. The other was clearly Weiss Schnee. The hair gave it away. That and the haughty demeanour.

Ruby jumped to her feet. "Look Weiss it's not what you think she explained the whole thing you see she doesn't actually wear a bow she has kitty ears and they're actually kinda cute…" she trailed off as Weiss ignored her, marching right up to Blake.

"Weiss, I want you to know that I'm no longer associated with the White Fang." _Oh. That's interesting._ Artorias wasn't a big fan of the Fang. They gave the rest of the faunus a bad name, after all - and that wasn't even his own personal experience with them.

But if she'd left them, Blake couldn't be that bad. And Sun had vouched for her.

"Back when I was with them-"

"Stop. Do you have any idea how long we've been searching for you?"

Blake's eyes widened.

"Twelve hours. That means I've had twelve hours to think about this. And in that twelve hours, I've decided I don't care."

"You don't care?"

"You said you're not one of them anymore, right?"

"No, I haven't been since-"

"Ah-ah-ah! I don't want to hear it. All I want to know is that the next time something this big comes up, you'll come to your teammates, and not some – someone else."

Blake paused, and a relieved sigh escaped her. "Of course."

There was an awkward pause. Then Ruby broke the silence. "Yeah! Team Ruby is back together!"

Weiss turned to Sun. "I'm still not quite sure how I feel about you."

"What'd you do?" Artorias whispered.

"I'm a rapscallion, apparently," he muttered.

"And… I don't even know who you are," she said to Artorias.

"I'm Artorias, the Wolf Knight," he grinned, ignoring Sun's eye-roll.

"Do people actually call you that?" The blonde girl snorted.

"It worked with Penny."

"Well, I'm Yang, the Beautiful Blonde Brawler," she drawled, then she glanced around curiously. "Uh, was Penny here or something?"

Ruby gestured to her side. "Yeah she was just – hey, where'd she go?"

/-/

 _June_

 _Team: _ _ _ __

 _MSG: PLEASE OBSERVE GWIN. G – MANTLE? N – CONTINGENCY?_

Professor Ozpin hummed in thought. He'd received the message not long after the Vacuo students had arrived. Of course, with the semester coming to a close soon, it would be hard to watch over them, but once class resumed...

Well. He'd be able to observe the Team, as requested, and provide June with a proper evaluation.

An alert came up on his scroll for another message.

 _Qrow_

 _Team: _ _ _ __

 _MSG: QUEEN HAS PAWNS_

* * *

 **EDIT: Story has since moved to the crossover section, but on the off chance anybody cares about posterity I'm leaving this as-is.**

 **AN: I thought I'd save the AN for the end, this time at least, just so y'all could dive head-first into the actual story.**

 **So, hey. This is a _RWBY_ / _Dark Souls_ crossover-ish fic but not really. I've not listed it as such, nor made explicit mention of the fact in the summary, because there is no universe-hopping. Everything is set in Remnant. The characters I'm throwing into the mix are _based_ off of bosses and NPCs from _Dark Souls_ , but they are _not_ those characters, and, hopefully, you won't need to know much about _Dark Souls_ to understand this fic (although you might be in a better situation to predict characters' actions if you're familiar).**

 **That being said: for those of you who _do_ know the _Dark Souls_ lore, remember that a lot of it is open to interpretation (and I've chosen characters to focus on who I can interpret very liberally), but I will occasionally write something that goes completely against the established lore. I can only think of one planned instance where I do that (and it's a long way down the line), but I just want you all to be aware that I am willing to do that if it makes a better story.**

 **While I'm here, a disclaimer (and consider this to count for the whole fic): I don't own _RWBY_ , I don't own _Dark Souls_.**

 **As for an update schedule, I'm aiming to get out one chapter a week (uploading on Fridays, but I'm Australian so it may be Thursdays for some of you - time zone shenanigans and all that) with a hiatus once I hit the end of Volume 2. So, the next chapter should be out on March 3rd. Fingers crossed, ay?**


	2. Chapter 1: Iris Brothers

**AN: I'll throw this first AN up because I'm a shameless glutton for internet-points: If you like it, follow it. Review it. Favourite it, even. Stroke my ego.**

* * *

Gilderoy Ornstein could go without his pauldrons perfectly fine. And the tassets, too – he was perfectly comfortable leaving them behind.

But, he thought, taking a seat on the Bullhead, he felt practically naked in a casual shirt, without his usual dust-embroidered coat. Which was ironic, because he never wore a shirt under his coat.

"…so waddaya think of Port?"

Gilderoy sighed and turned to look at the wolf faunus. Artorias slouched against the wall of the Bullhead, his posture probably purposefully horrendous just to annoy him.

They'd endured a week of classes at Beacon before the break. Gilderoy never thought he'd describe himself as having to _endure_ a class. He was studious, attentive – the best of the best. He did everything he could not just to learn from his teachers at Shade, but to enjoy their lessons.

But he couldn't do that for Port's class.

"He's an experienced huntsman," said Gilderoy. Artorias cackled.

"That's Gil-speak for 'I have nothing good to say about him but he's probably got something going for him'."

"It's what I say about you, when people ask."

"Ouch," Artorias said, grinning. "Ciaran seems quite enamoured with Portside." That was true – and incredibly confusing. Sure, Ciaran, like himself, was a good student, but come _on_.

He couldn't understand how _anyone_ could tolerate Port's lectures, let alone enjoy them.

"Jealous?" he mocked.

"Nah," Artorias shrugged. "Two years ago? Sure. Not anymore."

"Before Quelana?"

"Before Winter gave me a verbal kick in the ass, but sure, close enough."

"I don't want to know," Gilderoy winked, twisting Artorias' words.

"Well, I didn't _think_ you had a thing for lectures, but sure, whatever floats your boat – any _port_ in a storm, right?" The wolf had the audacity to wink right back, the insufferable bastard, and despite himself, Gilderoy felt his cheeks turning as red as his hair. _Well, that backfired._ "Don't worry, I won't tell the good professor."

Even thinking of the rotund huntsman forced Gilderoy to supress a shudder.

"But even if I did, I wouldn't be too worried. He seems like a good _sport_."

"Artorias, stop."

"You're no fun today." Gilderoy decided not to point out that he'd never appreciated the wolf's puns. "Chin up. Smough's waiting for you at the air _port_."

Gilderoy ignored the joke. "Didn't think you'd support even the slightest interaction with Smough."

"That's more like it!" He raised a hand. "Don't leave me hanging, man."

It took Gilderoy a moment to think back on his words. He shook his head.

Artorias dropped his hand to his side with a pout. "Seriously, though. I thought you'd be in a good mood. Just say the word and I'll beat him up again."

"You just want an excuse."

"True," he shrugged. "C'mon. Talk to me."

"There's nothing-"

"I know when you're lying. You could just be honest and say you don't want to talk about it, you know. Makes things easier for the both of us."

Gilderoy sighed. It wasn't like it was especially personal or anything – hell, it even involved Artorias, to some extent – and it was weighing on his mind. Why not?

 _Because you'll fight, as usual._

"Smough's been pretty upset recently." He ignored the voice at the back of his mind.

"This isn't about the expulsion thing, is it? Because I'm totally not sorry."

"Artorias…"

"Nevermind, ignore me."

Gilderoy paused for a second to make sure that the wolf was _actually_ finished before continuing. "His old team's just putting a lot of pressure on him, that's all."

"What do they want him to do? He's not at Shade anymore."

"No thanks to you," Gilderoy sniped.

Artorias feigned hurt, holding one hand over his heart and another to his forehead as though he were about to faint. " _All_ thanks to me, but go on."

"They feel that they would have qualified for the tournament if they'd still had him."

Artorias was silent for a moment, and his head hung low. He seemed deep in thought.

"I'm gonna be honest, I'm trying really hard not to laugh."

"Artorias!"

"What?" he snickered. "That's _so_ petty."

"One of the first year teams qualified. They think they could have won that spot."

"Griggs' team, right?" Artorias tapped his chin. "Okay, seriously, Havel should have been able to walk all over them with one hand tied behind his back – and he had two teammates backing him up. Sure, Smough might have made a difference, but the fact of the matter is that they lost anyway. Suck it up."

Gilderoy shrugged. "That's what I said, and Smough agrees-"

Artorias held up a finger.

"What?"

"Sorry, I just – the thought of Smough and me agreeing on something makes me feel sick. You were saying?"

Gilderoy rolled his eyes. "He knows they're in the wrong, we know they're in the wrong, but they're still upset with him, and it's getting him down."

"And I suppose they're upset with me then, too?"

"Beyond furious."

"Good thing I'm in Vale and they're in Vacuo, then," he said, lacing his fingers behind his head and resting his weight against the wall once again. "Don't let them, or Smough, get to you. Honestly, I'm surprised Smough even cares."

"He cares about his team."

"And precious little else," Artorias remarked.

"He's learnt his lesson."

"Has he?" Artorias took a seat, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning forwards. "It's only been three months, and you know how set he is in his ways. He almost killed an innocent girl, Gil. He's lucky he got off with only an expulsion."

"You'd know all about killing faunus, wouldn't you?" It was a low blow, for sure, but Artorias was treading dangerous waters. Smough had his reasons, misguided as they were, and whatever might have happened, the fact of the matter was that he _hadn't_ killed the girl.

The wolf's face darkened, and he absentmindedly fidgeted with the signet ring on his right hand. "Don't twist my words, Ornstein." _Oh, we're going for last names now?_ "It's not the same. Quill was anything but innocent."

"Well, one day we'll have somewhere for people like Quill." That day was approaching fast, hopefully. It was his dream, after graduation, to establish an official military and law enforcement unit for Vacuo – turn the kingdom into a real beacon of order and security. One day, he hoped, the name Gilderoy Ornstein would be known in Vacuo in the same way that the name James Ironwood was known in Atlas.

The wolf rolled his eyes. "Let's not start that again." And, of course, Artorias was vehemently against him on the matter. Occasionally, Gilderoy thought he did it out of spite. "Prison is for people like Smough, too, Ornstein."

"Professor June didn't-"

"Professor June understands the balance of power in Vacuo. Shade holds the power – _she_ holds the power. She would never abuse it." He breathed deeply and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look, I don't wanna fight-"

"Then why'd you bring up Smough in the first place?"

"Because he makes you happy, Gil. And you looked like you could use some happy. Man, that got derailed quick, huh?"

Gilderoy's face softened. Sure, they disagreed on a lot of points. The military. Smough Iris. Arthur Quill. But he couldn't say that Artorias didn't at least try to make things work. "Truce?" he asked, extending a hand.

"Truce." Artorias shook it.

They rest of the trip was filled only with the soft humming of the Bullhead's engines, though it wasn't much longer before they touched down in Vale.

And, of course, Artorias couldn't resist having the last word.

"Oh, dear Gilderoy, be sure to give Smough my very best," Artorias said teasingly.

Gilderoy sighed. Artorias' best to Smough would never be polite. "I'll tell him you told him to go fuck himself, then?"

"That's the spirit."

/-/

Artorias opened the door and stepped inside. "Mum, I'm home!"

She stood at the end of the hall menacingly, tapping her foot, her arms crossed. "You're late," she said, but the corners of her mouth were upturned.

"Sorry, C made me start my homework – can you believe they set homework over the holidays here?"

"You mean they don't do that at Shade?" Sun said, coming downstairs.

"Well, they do, but it's fun homework, like, go on a dangerous mission in the middle of the desert and slaughter some Grimm kind of fun," he explained.

 _Wait._

"Sun?"

"Yeah?" the monkey faunus shrugged, grabbing a banana from the fruit bowl with his tail.

"…what are you doing here?"

"I offered him a place to stay until the Haven students arrive," Morgan said.

"Yeah, that – thanks again, Mrs Nym, by the way."

"Oh, I'm not married Sun, and please, call me Morgan," she laughed.

 _He didn't say anything funny._

…

 _Oh gods no._

"Right, of course – anyway, I showed up like three weeks before the Haven bunch were actually supposed to, so they don't have our rooms ready at Beacon yet," Sun said.

"Coffee, Arty?" Morgan asked, heading into the kitchen. "You still take it the same, right? No sugar?"

"Uh, yeah, thanks Mum," he said, following Sun towards the living room. Gil didn't need to know. But what he could _really_ use, with the suspicion that his mother had a _thing_ for Sun, was a glass of scotch. Several, actually.

Somehow he knew she wouldn't be too impressed by that. Coffee would have to do.

"And you, Sun?"

"Sure thing, Morgan," he said. Artorias resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"You'll have to bring your team to visit sometime, Arty," called Morgan. "I'd love to meet them."

"Actually, I tried to bring them all today," Artorias said. "But Gil's boyfriend's in town, so they're meeting up, and C's doing the homework, and Gough is…" he trailed off, looking up in thought. "You know, I don't know what Gough's doing, something about his weapon." Artorias shrugged.

He'd wanted to introduce not just Gough, but all his team to Team RWBY. But Ciaran, as usual, had chosen to study in their dorm rather than socialise, and Gilderoy, outside of class, did his best to avoid Artorias – not because they weren't friends, he reminded himself, but because they had a tendency to argue.

And by tendency, he meant they did it all the time. It wasn't fair on the rest of their team.

But they were friends.

"Dude, Gil's got a boyfriend? Do I know him?" Sun asked.

Artorias made a sharp sound of contempt. "Trust me, if you knew him you'd wish you didn't."

"I'll take your word for it."

Morgan walked in with three mugs of coffee on a tray. "Sun's been telling me all about the mission you fought against the White Fang," she said, giving him a pointed look.

Artorias looked away.

"…shouldn't I have?" Sun asked.

"Not a big deal," said Artorias, after a brief pause. "All's well that ends well."

Morgan nodded. "Later, then. Any other exciting adventures I should know about?"

Artorias realised that he'd taken his ring off, and was fidgeting with it. He slipped it back on and smiled as convincingly as he could. _I hope she doesn't ask again._

"Well, there's this quaint little town up on the northern edge of the desert called Izalith. I was invited out for the holidays last year. I'd been told that Grimm never go out there, and I never actually saw one, but I did get in a scrap with this creepy huntsman..."

/-/

Gough Iris considered himself to be a friendly person.

He was sure that there were some people who would disagree with him. But that was fine; Gough didn't feel the need to prove those people wrong. He had friends, good friends, whose opinions he trusted and whom he loved dearly, and he knew they loved him back.

That being said, he wasn't against making more friends. Through Artorias, he'd become acquainted with Team RWBY over the course of the week. And while he wasn't someone to take advantage of a friendship, he _did_ need help from one of them on a small matter.

Ruby, as they'd organised, came strolling into the firing range, a helmet on her head. "Thank you again for your assistance," said Gough.

"Oh, no worries!" said Ruby. Gough smiled down at her – such a lovely girl. Perhaps a little naïve at times – but then, everyone had been naïve at some point in their life. No harm no foul. And she had a wonderful team to support her, if ever there were a harm or a foul.

Although he was a little worried about Blake. Sure, he'd only known her for about a week, but something seemed off about her. It wasn't that she was introverted – he'd lived with Ciaran for two and a half years, after all – but she was more withdrawn than even Ciaran could be.

Again, though, he didn't know her that well. It was best, he thought, to wait for someone more familiar with her ways to raise their concerns before he got too worried.

"So… what are we doing again?"

Right. Ruby.

Gough held up the arrow, examining the end closely. Gravity dust was expensive to acquire in almost any form other than as mass-produced rounds, so he'd taken great care in carving the crystals into fletching for this arrow.

"You are an expert on weapons, correct?"

"Ah, well, I _like_ weapons, and I probably know more than most people, but I wouldn't go so far as to say _expert_ ," Ruby said, blushing.

"Your humility does you credit," Gough chuckled. "How knowledgeable are you about dust rounds? Specifically, gravity."

"I use them…?" she hedged.

"Do you think a gravity dust arrow would be able to carry a huntsman's weight?"

"So that's what that is, I guess," she said. "I don't know. You want to try, though, right?"

Gough drew his bow. "Are you still sure you want to assist me?"

She didn't respond. Her eyes were glued to the bow. Resting one end on the ground, it only came up to Gough's chest – but he was a little over double Ruby's height, by his estimate, and so the bow towered over her.

"That's a big bow…" said Ruby.

"And if you're still willing to help, I may soon be shooting you from it," Gough laughed.

"I'm in."

"Thank you," he said, nocking the arrow. "I shall, of course, provide cookies as a token of my gratitude." Ruby grinned at him.

 _That could be an issue._ He didn't have the cookies on-hand, after all – he'd borrowed the kitchen facilities between classes to bake a batch, but he'd stored them in the dorm. Ciaran had been absentmindedly snacking on them as she'd read, and Gough himself had taken a few. It was his right to enjoy the fruits of his labour, after all.

Artorias, bless him, had probably taken a few as well. He'd probably eaten them with mustard too – it was one of those strange habits he had, mixing hot mustard with everything. Strange, perhaps, wasn't a strong enough word. Ciaran would call it disgusting.

But that wasn't the point. The point was that Gough was now out of cookies.

 _I'll make some more after this. Perhaps she has a specific recipe she enjoys._

"I'll be aiming a little above the target in case there's more drop than usual, but if something goes wrong, do not hesitate to let go."

"No hesitation involved, got it."

"Good." It wouldn't do for her to get hurt on his account.

Although, in that case, the safest course of action probably wouldn't be to fire her from a bow with over a hundred kilograms of draw weight.

 _But what is bravery without a dash of recklessness?_

"So… how am I supposed to do this?"

Gough drew the bow. "Grab on to the arrow shaft," he grunted. "Stand on my right, or you'll get caught on the bow's limb. And remember-"

"Bail out if I have to. I got it." She reached up and gripped the arrow with both hands.

"Ready?"

She nodded.

Gough channelled some aura into the fletching, and it glowed faintly purple.

Then, he loosed the arrow.

It tore forwards, and Ruby jerked along with it – but her grip faltered, and she quickly fell to the ground, rolling a few times before coming to a stop.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine!" she said, climbing to her feet. "But you'll need to add something to the shaft for extra grip."

Gough nodded. "I'll get on it. Thank you, little one."

"I'm not _that_ little," she complained, causing Gough to chuckle. To him, almost everyone was little. "So, about those cookies?"

/-/

"That's why I have you, though!" Smough cackled, his broad shoulders heaving with laughter. He wasn't unlike his brother – taller than most people, although not monstrously so, and very strong, with well-muscled limbs. Like Gough, he was bald, but recently he'd grown a rather handsome auburn beard.

"Smough!" Gilderoy blushed brightly. Why he'd decided to actually relay Artorias' message was beyond him. A way to start a conversation? Take Smough's mind off his own team? Just a spur of the moment decision?

It was probably one of them.

"No, but seriously, tell him I'll cut his ears off," Smough said, his booming laughter dying down. He looked down at his menu.

"Smough…"

"What? Too far?" He beckoned over a waiter. "I'll have the cheesy bacon quiche and a garden salad," he said.

"Hmm? Oh, I'll get the avocado on toast, thank you," said Gilderoy. The waiter nodded and collected their menus. "You can't just say things like that, Smough."

"What, he gets to insult me and I don't get to poke him back?"

"He doesn't mean it." In fact, he'd put the words in Artorias' mouth, not that they weren't accurate.

"Yes he does," Smough shrugged. "At least a bit. No harm no foul. What's the mutt been up to, anyway? And only tell me the bad stuff."

Gilderoy frowned. "I defend you to him. I won't recount his misfortune for your amusement."

"Oh, come on," Smough said. "Egg and the boys are really mad at me. I could use a pick-me-up. Just one?"

Gilderoy glared at him. Smough teased him by glaring back.

"Fine," acquiesced Gilderoy. "He and Quelana broke up."

Smough snorted. "Good riddance."

"You could at least try showing sympathy," Gilderoy said wryly.

"Why?" Smough shrugged. "Quelana is _wrong_ , just like the mutt. Her entire family is."

"I don't want to-"

"But I do. The faunus are unnatural, Gil. I know he's your teammate, but I don't feel comfortable with you being around Artorias all the time."

Gilderoy sighed. "We're teammates. We _must_ work together. I do what I can to make both our lives a little easier."

Okay, maybe that wasn't entirely true. They didn't do much at all to make each other's lives easier; they argued incessantly, in fact. But, regardless, Gilderoy considered the wolf to be a friend.

"But I doubt we'll see each other much after graduation." That would probably be true even if Smough hadn't been urging him on, especially if he did end up pursuing his military dreams. He doubted Artorias would want anything to do with him, in that situation. "Is that enough for you?"

Smough nodded. "It's not asking much, is it?"

"No," said Gilderoy curtly. "Let's drop it?"

"Sure."

They stayed silent for a while. The waiter arrived with their brunch.

"Gough says hi, by the way," Gilderoy said, just to break the silence.

"No he doesn't," Smough scowled, shoving a forkful of salad into his mouth violently.

"No," Gilderoy admitted. "He doesn't have to. I know he cares about you."

"He sided with that _mutt_ over his own brother-"

"I'm not saying he was right," said Gilderoy slowly, "and I still think Artorias shouldn't have brought it to the headmaster and put Gough in that position. But he does care about you. He cares about everyone."

"It's not possible to care about everyone. Not equally, at least. People fight. Gough made his choice; _you_ had my back. He did not." Smough sighed. "I'm going to have… a lot of time on my hands, when I go back to Vacuo. I won't make any promises, but I'll think about meeting with him when I return to watch the tournament."

"Thank you."

"…anything for you, Gilderoy," he said.

They ate the rest of their brunch in silence.

* * *

 **AN: Lots of little plot bunnies for me to follow up on later.**

 **I put a lot of focus on the team's history this chapter. At this point there should be enough to piece together the basics, although the fine details aren't obvious yet. Some of them are for the long game. Others will get an explanation fairly soon.**

 **I considered cutting the section with Sun, but I ended up leaving it in purely because it's now my headcanon that every mother on Remnant has the hots for blond monkey faunus teens. Just need him to meet Raven.**

 **And I'm sorry if the Gilderoy/Smough brunch was cliché, but I imagined Hammerboi angrily eating a salad and I couldn't help myself. Feel free to guess who else is on Smough's team - Team SHMR (Officially Team Shimmer, but they prefer to call themselves Team Hammer with a silent 'S'). Know how you'd guess? In a _review!_**

 **Totally not fishing, nope.**

 **In other news; nice people are _boring._ Gough - the resident nice guy - was boring as hell to write, I tell you what. I originally wanted to have him on the Bullhead to Vale with Gilderoy and Artorias, but for a number of reasons it didn't make sense for him to be there. So, instead, I jumped straight into his POV for his introduction, and I hope it worked out well.**

 **Next chapter - March 10th.**


	3. Chapter 2: Beacon Academy

**Hello again! Just gonna say based on some feedback from Queequeg (I know I have other readers y'all, feel free to leave some reviews): I'm not restricting myself purely to DS1 characters - in fact, "Egg" was a nickname for a DS3 character. Team SHMR I largely picked because I thought it'd be fun to put Smough on a team full of hammer-wielders - Team SHMR includes Smough Iris, Havel Rockwell, Eygon "Egg" Mourn, and Leeroy Rush. I feel comfortable using Eygon and Leeroy as "throwaway" characters because I definitely wasn't going to do anything with them - Paladin Leeroy is basically a footnote in the lore, and anything Eygon could do... well, there's another character I'd much rather use.**

 **Havel might have something going for him, though. But that's planning _way_ ahead.**

 **Most of the characters I've planned to have major roles are from DS1, however. There's no real reason for it - they were just the characters who it felt natural to include. Although...**

 **Hmm. Don't want to give _that_ name away, for sure.**

 **As for Sif - no comment ;)**

* * *

"Come in."

The elevator opened. "Ozpin!" Ironwood held his arms out in greeting.

"Hello General."

"Please, drop the formalities," he smiled, shaking Ozpin's hand. "It's been too long."

And oh, was it good to be back at Beacon? Where the council couldn't touch him, where the air was warm, where he'd be surrounded by friends, and…

"And Glynda." Her. "It has certainly been too long since we last met."

"Oh _James_." He didn't miss the mocking tone in her voice. "I'll be outside," she said, more to Ozpin than him.

Ironwood wouldn't let it get him down. "Well, she hasn't changed a bit," he said.

"So, what in the world has brought you all the way down from Atlas? Headmasters don't typically travel with their students for the Vytal Festival." Ozpin passed Ironwood a mug of coffee, which he accepted gratefully.

"Well, you know how much I love Vale this time of year. Besides, with you hosting? I thought this might be a good opportunity for us to catch up." What he really meant, of course, was sort out this whole… _Maiden_ business. But it was best to wait for Ozpin to bring that up himself.

For once, Ironwood was the subordinate. It wasn't a position he was used to.

"I can certainly appreciate quality time between friends. However, the small fleet outside my window has me somewhat concerned."

"Well, concern is what brought them here."

"I understand travel between kingdoms has become increasingly difficult."

"Oz, you and I both know why I brought those men."

Whoever was hunting the Fall Maiden would strike again, sooner or later.

Ozpin sighed. "We are in a time of peace. Shows of power like this will just give off the wrong impression."

"But if what Qrow said is true-"

"If what Qrow said is true then we will handle it tactfully. It's the Vytal Festival, a time to celebrate unity and peace. So, I suggest you not scare people by transporting hundreds of soldiers across the continent."

"I'm just being cautious."

"As am I. Which is why we will continue to train the best huntsmen and huntresses we can."

 _That means nothing._

"Believe me, I am." It was the truth, but they should be doing more, _far_ more. He was the commander of the world's greatest military power, leader of the most technologically advanced nation – he could do so much more.

And he would. In a heartbeat. If only Ozpin would let him.

He sighed, and began to step away, but paused, a thought finding its way to his tongue. _Can your children fight a war?_

"Are you aware that Team Gwyn is here?" Ozpin asked lightly, before he could speak.

He paused before he spoke, recalling all he knew about the team. Students of Shade, a little splintered, but highly skilled. Some had assisted in stopping a terrorist plot at the last Vytal festival. "It doesn't surprise me."

"Professor June requested that I personally evaluate them. I understand that the Atlesian Military compiled files on them after the Quill conspiracy."

Ironwood narrowed his eyes. "On those involved, yes," he said. "Their leader did not participate in the investigation. As a team, they're somewhat fragile, but they are loyal to their friends, if not necessarily to each other, and they are dedicated to their job."

"That's certainly good to know, but I will require any additional details you can provide." Ozpin steepled his fingers and rested his elbows on his desk. "I'd appreciate it if you could send me their files."

That was a kicker. Ironwood didn't like handing off Atlas Military reports – even to Ozpin – without knowing the full reason why. Ozpin knew that, but it was clear that the older man was holding something back.

 _It might be worth keeping a closer eye on them._

"Are you concerned-"

"No, I am not worried that they could be a threat. Please, James. Trust me."

And there was that word. _Trust._ Ironwood understood the need for both trust and secrecy – he wouldn't have gotten to his position otherwise. But trust went both ways, and it was becoming increasingly clear that Ozpin did not trust him as much as he claimed.

He grimaced and purged such thoughts from his mind, deciding to look at the facts – was it worth turning the information over to Ozpin?

Perhaps he was looking to recruit a new informant. Qrow was only one very flawed man, after all, and if his memory served, Mr Nym was apt at gathering intelligence.

But Ozpin had requested the files for the entire team. He cast his memory back to when he'd read them. The background checks hadn't turned up anything particularly interesting: Artorias Nym had a mother in Vale, father unknown; Ciaran White had been either orphaned or abandoned as an infant; Gough Iris' parents had been murdered when he was young, although Ironwood couldn't recall anything about the perpetrator. As for their abilities, Ciaran and Gough were either hiding their semblances, or did not know them, but if Ironwood's memory was correct, Mr Nym could talk to animals. It had been a while since he'd read the report, so he wasn't quite sure.

The reports were not kept up to date, of course – it wasn't easy to keep an eye on everyone Atlas had ever taken interest in. But if June and Ozpin had taken an interest in the team, it was worth reading up on their recent activities – and to open a file on Gilderoy Ornstein.

It was because of June that Ironwood made up his mind. This was at her request, and she was far less passive than Ozpin. Ironwood trusted that if she wanted it done, it would help their cause. So, at least Ozpin would be doing _something_ , not just sitting in his ivory tower, watching and waiting.

"I'll send them to you as soon as I can," he said, after a long pause.

"Thank you," the headmaster said, reclining slightly in his chair.

/-/

"Oh, come on. Classes start tomorrow, then we'll actually have to _do_ stuff – you remember how boring that is, right?"

"But important," Ciaran said. She didn't even glance over to him. She was lying in bed in her blue dress – _combat skirt_ , he reminded himself – her cuirass, gauntlets, and boots on the floor, her blonde hair splayed lazily about the sheets. As she often was, she was absorbed in a book.

Well, not so absorbed that she didn't answer _._ Artorias counted that a win.

"Screw importance," said Artorias. "I think we should do some non-boring stuff. Today."

"We'd appreciate details," Gough said. The gentle giant was sat on his bed, in his usual cobbled-together armour, whittling away. Whittling was a hobby of his. Artorias had once possessed, and been quite fond of, a ball of wood with the effigy of a wolf carved into it. Then Alvina had decided it would make a nice plaything.

 _Damn cat._

"I was kinda thinking, 'find the other teams we're friends with and wing it'," Artorias admitted.

"The teams _you_ are friends with," Gil corrected, making his bed. "I've never met Team Ruby." His weapon, a shotgun-bident (Artorias always called it a spear to Gil's face, of course, just to annoy him), lay dismantled on the desk.

" _Despite_ my efforts," Artorias muttered. "And hey, Sun's here too. Remember Sun? Chill guy, blond, has a tail, shows off his abs even more than you."

"It still surprises me that he chose to enroll at Haven instead of Shade. But it seems he's done well for himself there. I shan't begrudge him that," Gough said.

"Then you're in?"

"Naturally," Gough chuckled. "I certainly don't recall saying otherwise."

"I have to do weapon maintenance," Gil said.

"Lame," Artorias accused, his ears flattening against his head.

"Important."

"What about you, C?" the wolf asked. "Keen to show off to some first years?"

She shrugged. "I have a lot of reading to catch up on." Hardly surprising. Even at Shade, she rarely left the dorm for anything other than meals and classes. She preferred to spend her time reading.

" _Concerning Beowolves: The Science of Grimm Pack Mentality_?" Artorias read the cover of the book in her hands.

"Highly informative."

" _Fantastic Weapons and How to Forge Them_?" It was on the floor, with several other books lying amongst her discarded armour. "You're not doing that insecure thing again, are you? Your daggers are awesome."

"I've been considering adding a ballistic component to my arsenal."

"Just carry dust crystals," Gilderoy said. "That's what Artorias does."

"At _your_ insistence," Artorias shot back. "They're not cheap."

Gilderoy shrugged. "It's important to have some long-range weaponry." He looked back to the desk to clean the parts of his dismantled weapon.

"Aura is a viable long-range offensive tool, thank you very much."

"But taxing," pointed out Gilderoy.

"Taxing on my aura, not my wallet," Artorias said, waving it off. He turned again to Ciaran's books. " _Nevermore: A Volume of Poetry by Peter Port_?" he read. "Sounds like a torture device to me."

"His words are _honey_ ," she hissed. "I'm surprised Winter never drilled any class into you."

"I think you've vastly overestimated how often Winter and I talk, C," Artorias said wryly. "But sure, I'll stop. You're sure you're not coming?"

"Yes!"

"Just you and me then, big guy."

"Excellent," Gough said, pocketing the ball of wood and lumbering to his feet. "I'm guessing the cafeteria."

"I'm betting library. Ten lien?"

"Twenty."

"Deal." The pair slipped out into the corridor.

/-/

"Watcha doing?" Yang said, leaning over her partner's shoulder. There were weird drawings in her book – a guy with a sword on his back, a rose-

"Nothing." Blake shut the book. "Just… going over notes from last semester."

 _Liar,_ Yang thought, but she didn't press the issue. She turned her head and caught a grape in her mouth. "Lame."

Damn, that was a good grape.

She caught another one and gave Nora, her grape-thrower, a thumbs up.

A binder slammed onto the table, filled to the brim with pages.

"Ahem," Ruby the binder-bringer coughed, seeking their attention. "Sisters! Friends! …Weiss."

"Hey!"

"Four score and seven minutes ago, I had a dream."

Yang rolled her eyes. "This oughtta be good." She caught another grape from Nora.

No, that one was a strawberry. She made a little noise of appreciation.

"A dream that one day, the four of us would come together – as a team – and have the most fun anyone has ever had… ever!"

"Did you steal my binder?" Weiss asked.

"I am not a crook."

"What are you talking about?" Blake asked.

"I'm talking about kicking off the semester with a bang!" She pointed imperiously to emphasise her point.

 _I feel a pun coming on._

"I always kick _my_ semesters off with a Yang!" Yang said.

Nobody laughed.

"Eh?" _It's funny because – oh, forget it._

"Boo!" said Nora. A tomato hit Yang on the nose, and she glared at the offending ginger girl.

Ruby started ranting about… something. Something about being not-lame? The tournament? But Yang wasn't really listening, too busy arming herself with an apple. She threw it at Nora, and it bounced off the bubbly girl's head onto Ren's tray, scattering his food.

"I don't know. I think I might sit this one out," Blake said.

"Sit out or not, I think however we spend this last day we should do it as a team," said Weiss.

"I got it!" Nora armed herself with a pie, and threw it at Yang.

But she missed.

Time seemed to stop. Yang's eyes were glued to the pie, her mouth forming an 'O' of shock, as it went flying towards Weiss' face.

/-/

"Hey Sun."

"Hey man, big man, this is Neptune, my partner from Haven." The monkey faunus gestured to his blue-haired friend.

"Sup," said Neptune.

"Yo. I'm Artorias, the Wolf-"

"Dude, no. Seriously," Sun said, cutting him off.

Gough smiled in amusement and addressed Neptune. "And I am Gough," said Gough. Neptune nodded in acknowledgement.

"Right. So, anyway, where was I? Yeah, we were fighting side by side, and she was really fast, and I threw a banana at a guy which sounds gross, but it was awesome," Sun said.

"Nice," said Neptune.

"Right? And the best part is, she's a faunus." Sun looked side to side, covering his mouth with a hand. "But that's a secret."

"A 'don't tell Gough because you tell Gough everything secret'?" Artorias teased.

"A 'don't tell Scarlet the moment Sun turns his back secret'?" Neptune chimed in.

"Yeah, one of those ones. _Secret_ -secret," Sun clarified.

"I see," said Gough.

"Don't worry, man. We got it," Neptune said. "We _got_ it."

"You better," said Sun, tapping Neptune warningly. "I just don't wanna screw this up, you know? The people here are the coolest – no offense to you guys."

"None taken."

"Okay, they're just in here. I'm really excited for you to meet them, so be cool, okay? You're gonna be cool, right?"

"Artorias, Gough, scorecard?" Neptune struck a pose and put on a brilliant smile.

"Could be an eight in bad lighting, but an easy nine otherwise," Artorias said.

"Harsh, but fair. I'll take it."

"Like an ancient deity, chiseled from marble," Gough praised.

"Thank you," said Neptune.

"Right. I get it," Sun said.

He pushed the door open.

 _"Food fight!"_ a Beacon student screamed, fleeing past them to escape the mess hall.

It was pure chaos.

Tables were strewn about the cafeteria. Food was everywhere, splattered about the walls and floor. Towards the back of the hall, atop a mountain of tables, were four students – Artorias knew them to be friends with Team Ruby, but he hadn't personally met them yet. They were positioned at the opposite end of the hall to their foes, and the two teams were throwing insults and taunts at each other.

"You owe me twenty lien," Gough muttered.

The food fight was a short, messy affair. Artorias found himself impressed by the structural integrity of Beacon's food more than anything else – not that the martial display wasn't impressive.

But a breadstick capable of surviving an impact that threw Yang halfway down the hall? Leeks that could crack a stone floor? That was awesome.

They could use some more mustard, though.

With such condiments in mind, Sun and Artorias found themselves huddling behind Gough's broad form to avoid a drenching, hiding behind the man right up to the very end.

Neptune, on the other hand, was left high and dry. Or rather, the opposite - the blue-haired boy was soaked through, as was Gough.

"I love these guys," Sun said, walking over to his blue-haired teammate. Mockingly, he dusted off his pristine shirt.

Neptune directed a glare at him.

The doors burst open behind them, and the combat teacher – Goodwitch, if he remembered correctly – stormed through, a riding crop in her hand. With a growl, she waved her hands, and all the tables, the food, the plates – they all began to clean themselves up.

"Dude, we need someone like that at Shade."

Gough was too busy wiping grape juice from his eyes to respond.

A man with silver hair and a cane walked through the doors. Even if Artorias hadn't seen him when he'd given that long-winded speech welcoming the Vacuo students to Beacon, he would have been able to recognise the man in an instant.

 _Professor Ozpin._ Headmaster of Beacon Academy. A living legend.

The headmaster spared a brief glance for the bystanders as he walked past, and Artorias could have sworn that the headmaster's eyes lingered on him for a little longer than the others. Then he was gone, walking up to the deputy.

"Children, please, do _not_ play with your food," she said.

Despite the dangerous tone to her voice, Artorias snorted.

Yang fell through the ceiling with a cry – but the moment she clambered to her feet, she said, with a wink to her team, "Just dropping in."

And Artorias broke out laughing.

/-/

"Oh, look, she's sent the kids again." Roman grinned at the grey and green pair, walking over and pulling them into a pseudo-hug. "This is turning out just like the divorce."

Emerald gagged. "Spare us the thought of you procreating." _Well, you're no fun today._

"That was a joke," he said instead, palming a slip of paper from her pocket. "And _this_ ," he brandished the note, "just might tell me where you two have been all day."

"What?" Emerald patted down her pockets in distress.

"I'm a professional, sweetheart, pay attention – maybe you'll learn something." He held the note up to his face. Two addresses were written on it. "Why do you have these?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" the girl's voice dripped with sarcasm.

"Yeah, I would. Now, where have you been all day?"

"Cleaning up your problems," said the cripple. "One of them at least."

"I had that under control," he gritted out. It wasn't far from the truth.

It would be useful to know how Cinder killed her rats, if he wasn't the one exterminating them.

"But that's neither here nor there," he said, putting on a disarming smile. "Yarrow wasn't anyone's problem."

"And now he _can't_ be anyone's problem," said green-with-envy. _Ugh, such a hideous shade of green, too._

"Bodies, especially ones that can't move, are a problem."

"The police won't-"

"I'm not worried about the police," Roman cut in, waving a hand to silence the brat. He wasn't even paying attention to which one had spoken. "Nobody liked him, but he was known in Vale's underground. We proceed with shady business as usual, nobody bats an eye. Someone people know _disappears_ , well – I won't say everyone loses their minds, but there will _certainly_ be some batting of eyes. If you weren't under _her_ protection, I would-"

"Do what, Roman?"

He looked over the cripple's shoulder, and upwards. Cinder descended to ground level, dangerously ravishing as ever.

"I'd uh… not kill them?"

"Cinder!" _Like a lovesick puppy._ Roman almost threw up on the girl's hair. It would have been an improvement.

"I thought I made it clear that you were to eliminate the would-be runaway."

"I was going to…" A blatant lie, of course. But Roman had done plenty of lying – he was good at it.

" _He_ was going to escape to Vacuo," said Vomit-hair. "Mercury and I decided to take it upon ourselves to kill the rat, and Neo's contact, too."

"I think he was some sort of cat, actually."

"What, like a puma?"

"Yeah, there you go."

"Quiet. Did I not specifically instruct you two to keep your hands clean while in Vale?" Cinder asked, thinly veiled anger making the two brats cringe away. Roman chuckled at them. Why not enjoy the fiery woman's temper while it wasn't directed at him?

"I just thought…"

"Don't think. Obey. And do not presume to silence a man who would otherwise keep his silence. Dear Roman is right; a trail of bodies is not in our best interest."

The shorter girl bowed her head. "Yes ma'am. It won't happen again." _Really, she's pathetic._

"That is not an excuse for you to grow lazy, Roman." Cinder turned to the crook. He laughed in her face, as carefree as he could.

 _Confidence is a weapon._

"Why wasn't this job done sooner?"

 _And you have no reason not to be confident._

"Uh…" Roman mockingly tilted his head, looking to the roof in fake contemplation. "Eh?" He pointed his cane to the right, towards a stack of cargo containers.

"Ehhhh?" _And just a step to the left._ He could turn it into a dance, a full stage number – Neo would enjoy it, or at least she'd enjoy his embarrassment.

"Ehhhhh!?" He spread his arms wide – there was basically a _wall_ of cargo containers behind him, after all – all full of dust. " _Sorry_ if I've been a little busy stealing every speck of dust in the kingdom."

"You're an inspiration to every punk with a gun and a ski-mask." Cripple-kid's tongue was dripping with sarcasm.

"Look around, kid, I've got this town running scared. Police camping out at every corner, dust prices through the roof, and we're sitting pretty in an old warehouse with more dust crystals, vials, and rounds than we know what to do with." He gestured back to the crates, the map, the _dust_.

"Speaking of which," he turned back to address his guests, like the oh-so gracious host he was, "if you guys wouldn't mind filling me in on your grand master plan, it might actually make my next string of robberies go a little smoother."

"Oh Roman, have a little faith," Cinder said, approaching him. She held a hand to his cheek.

He peered closely at her, noticing her eyes spark and her aura bolden with amused colour.

"You'll know what you need when you need to know."

But as frighteningly cheerful as her aura seemed, he didn't miss the aggressive, commanding current running through it. Her hand grew hot.

 _Too much confidence?_

He looked away, and in the corner of his eye he saw her smile smugly. Her hand pulled away.

"Besides, we're done with dust."

* * *

 **Obviously I borrowed a scene directly from canon without changing it in the slightest. It's not something I'll be doing often, but I decided to do it here because I wanted to show the differences between Team Ruby and Team Gwyn. Besides, with the butterfly effect and all that, not many canon scenes are going to be left unchanged anyway.**

 **And I mentioned some semblances! One, in fact. Ironwood's not the most reliable narrator when it comes to a character he only read about two years ago and who he's never met in person, so he's not _quite_ on the money - but it's close. I have semblances in mind for a few other characters, but semblances are tricky. They have to fit the character, but they can't be overpowered.**

 **Y'all might not be able to tell, but I didn't just swap Ciaran and Gough on the cover art - I redrew Ciaran. It's such a low-resolution picture that it doesn't make a huge difference, but it makes all the difference to me, and that's what matters.**

 **Next chapter - March 17th.**


	4. Chapter 3: Rapport

"Of course, with the end of the Great War and the founding of the huntsmen academies, the monarchs of the four kingdoms abdicated their thrones at the behest of the last king of Vale as laid down in the Treaty of Vytal."

The first time Artorias had walked into Oobleck's classroom, he'd felt like he'd been shocked, and like he hadn't slept for a thousand years.

The feeling had yet to go away.

 _Is he actually that fast? Or am I just really, really slow?_

"Now then, onto Atlas, or should I say, Mantle! I would be very surprised not to mention disappointed if any of you were not aware that the capital and name of the kingdom of Atlas was once Mantle. So, my question: who founded the kingdom of Mantle, and why was it founded?"

Artorias looked around. Nobody's hand was up. He raised an eyebrow at Ciaran – if anyone knew, it would be her. She shrugged back.

"Mr Ornstein!"

Doctor Oobleck appeared in front of their leader, leaning over the desk and staring over his spectacles. _I told you we shouldn't have gone for the front row, C._ And if she didn't know the answer… what hope did Gilderoy have?

"Do you have the answer?'

Artorias reclined in his chair, a smirk crossing his features.

Gilderoy stared right back at Oobleck calmly, for a solid fifteen seconds.

Artorias reached over and waved a hand over his leader's eyes. Gilderoy didn't even blink.

"Ah, wonderful, thank you for volunteering, Mr Nym!" And suddenly, Oobleck's attention was on the wolf.

Now it was Gilderoy's turn to smirk. Further along the row, Ciaran glared at him. "Why was the kingdom of Mantle founded, Mr Nym, and who founded it?"

"Well," said Artorias, "…some settlers went along and founded it… because otherwise Grimm would kill them?"

Oobleck pushed his glasses up his nose, then returned to stand in front of his desk. "The lesson I wished to impart is that it is perfectly fine to admit you do not know something. And while yes, you are almost certainly correct, that was a very broad answer.

"The truth is that _nobody_ knows the specifics surrounding the founding of the kingdom of Mantle, and if any of you had provided me with a detailed response I would have been immediately suspicious, albeit amazed should your claim prove true."

He sipped at his coffee.

"Nobody knows the details regarding the founding of the kingdoms of Vale or Vacuo, either. The response that they are sanctuaries against the creatures of Grimm, and that they were founded as such, is the only explanation we are ever likely to have. There are, however, many such lesser settlements across the world. The question worth asking about the kingdoms then, is this: who were their first monarchs, and what drove them to take power?"

"What about Mistral?" Ciaran asked, ever the intellectual.

"I'm glad you asked!" Oobleck said, suddenly appearing in front of the girl's desk. "Human and faunus settlers settled Mistral long before recorded history, it is true. But Mistral became a kingdom – by which I mean a nation with a monarchy rather than merely a stable haven from the Grimm – after the other three kingdoms, in a time when humanity was documenting its history in well-maintained… documents! Prior to the installation of a monarchy, we know that Mistral managed its affairs as a representative democracy. They named the head of the Hollow dynasty as one of three leaders in their standing military, and he used the position to consolidate power until he was, de facto, king."

The teacher dashed back to the other side of the room.

"We will of course be covering the history of Mistral in more detail in our next lecture."

Artorias let out an involuntary groan. Oobleck had decided, with students from all four kingdoms in his class, to educate them all on the histories of the kingdoms. Such a curriculum would have taken about half a semester back at Shade, under Professor Brim's tuition.

Oobleck, on the other hand, was trying to do it all in three lectures. And while he was doing a rather good job of it, the students were clearly struggling to keep up.

"Back to the matter at hand!"

Artorias had long since ceased taking notes. Now, he was aimlessly drawing messy spirals on his notepad, letting Oobleck's words flow into his brain half-processed. He'd remember them when he needed to.

"The now-defunct royal lines of Mantle, Vacuo, and Vale all stretch back long into the fog of history. That being said – there are numerous myths and legends that name the first monarchs of Vacuo and Vale and their deeds."

Gilderoy tapped Artorias' notepad with a fierce glare. Artorias rolled his eyes and waved him off, this time drawing circles instead of spirals.

"There is no evidence to support these folk tales, but that being said, there _might_ be some truth to them. Some of you may be familiar with _The Father of Giants_ – a children's book that would be unremarkable save for its inexplicable cultural success, and for the identity of the author, a veteran of the Great War. Many believe that the titular character is based on the last King of Vale. The point is this; _every story comes from somewhere._ "

Idly, Artorias found himself checking the clock. He was disappointed that they were only a quarter of the way into the lecture, but nevertheless he found himself impressed at Oobleck's pace.

"Mantle's first monarch is unique. There are hundreds – perhaps _thousands_ of folk-tales regarding Vale and Vacuo. But not even one exists for Mantle. But again, I digress! Onwards, to recorded history – to proven fact!"

/-/

"Hey Gil, how long until Goodwitch?" asked Artorias with a yawn, walking out of Oobleck's history class.

"Were you sleeping?" asked Gilderoy incredulously. "We've had her already. We're done for the day. We don't even have Goodwitch again until Friday."

"I could _never_ sleep in class," Artorias said, holding a hand to his chest defensively. "What do you take me for? Some kind of wastrel? A _miscreant_?"

"Sounds about right," said Ciaran. Gough chuckled softly.

"Fair call," admitted Artorias. "Well, I'm gonna go hang out with Team Ruby, then." Gilderoy had _hoped_ that the wolf would spend the afternoon doing something productive, whether it was starting on Oobleck's essay, revising the topics Port had covered (and he meant _covered_ in the loosest sense of the word), sparring…

 _Why do I bother anymore?_

"No, you're not," said Ciaran, grabbing Artorias' arm. "You are going to start on that essay." _He's a lost cause. Don't bother._

"It's due on Monday. That's like… a long way off? Hey Gough, what day is it?"

Gough shook his head, an amused smile on his face.

"Get it out of the way early," Ciaran commanded.

Artorias narrowed his eyes. "If you drag me off to do some gods-forsaken essay, I will complain. Loudly."

"Artorias!"

"Ciaran!" he said, crossing his arms, shifting his weight to one leg, and mimicking her voice as best he could.

She sighed, and pinched the bridge of her nose with her left hand. "You can't just have a whine every time I try to make you do something."

"Why not?"

"Because it's for your own good," she said, an unimpressed scowl forming on her face. "This is _important_ knowledge- you know what? If you can explain to me, right now, the political climate in Vale and Atlas and the key figures and events that lead to the current alliance, _in detail_ , I won't drag you kicking and screaming back to the dorm."

Artorias inspected his nails. Gilderoy knew that it was his tactic with Ciaran – he'd pretend to ignore her, enjoy her temper, and only when she was really, _really_ mad would he give her what she wanted, and even then it was usually with some compromise.

And yet somehow, Artorias and Ciaran were on better terms than Artorias and himself. _The mind boggles._

"Why?" asked Artorias.

Ciaran blinked once. Then twice. A deadly calm came over her, and her mouth formed a thin line. Then, she spoke.

"Because that's what the essay's _about_ , you _imbecile!_ "

"Oh, I see, you want to copy my hard work, is that it?" Artorias wore his best shit-eating grin, one he'd tailored over the course of two and half years to be perfect for irritating Ciaran.

"Artorias," said Gough warningly. Gilderoy's eyes flicked from the faunus to Ciaran. The girl was fuming, in her own somewhat-muted way. It was the eyebrows that gave it away, really – they'd dropped so low they were probably obscuring her vision.

"Fine," said the wolf. He took a deep breath, then recited, almost word for word, the last five minutes of Doctor Oobleck's lecture. And he did it _slower._ Gilderoy picked up on the things he'd missed from Oobleck, and to his eternal shame, started planning his own essay in his head. _Artorias doesn't need to know…_

"Happy yet?" Artorias finished.

Ciaran had taken a nonchalant stance, resting her weight on her left hip, her arms crossed, a mild smirk on her face – but her eyes spoke of disappointment. "You know, if you actually tried you'd probably be top of the class."

"Purely hypothetical," he said cheerily. "I can go now, right?"

She sighed and waved it off. "Go."

Artorias, apparently, felt that he needed to appease her."If I don't get it done, I'll let you punish me however you want – promise." _Why'd you work her up in the first place?_

Her cheeks blushed crimson. "I-I'll hold you to it," she stammered out.

"…do you want to come with?"

"I'm going to start on my essay, thank you very much," said Ciaran. Gilderoy shook his head. How the two of them could ever get along was beyond him.

"Suit yourself. You coming, Gough? Gil?" Gilderoy shook his head. He didn't have Ciaran's luck with the wolf – for them, an argument was far more serious an affair, and they argued _far_ more often.

"I'll come," said Gough. Neither Gilderoy nor Ciaran made to tell him otherwise. Gough, at least, took his studies seriously enough. He'd get it done without Ciaran's nagging.

"Enjoy your…" Artorias seemed to choke on the next word, " _essay_." But he smiled and waved facetiously as he and Gough walked down the hall to disappear around a corner.

"I have no idea how he does it," muttered Ciaran. "Could you sabotage his essay for me? I'd love to hear him scream."

"I don't want to know."

She rolled her eyes at him, though he didn't miss her cheeks grow a little red. "Not like that," she said.

"I'd rather not antagonise him either way," said Gilderoy. "Dorm or library?"

"Dorm's quieter," she said. "And I stashed a few more from Gough's latest batch of cookies. I swear he's making them sweeter than he used to."

/-/

"Sup losers," Sun said.

"So… we ended up in the library, can I have my twenty lien back?" Artorias whispered.

"Artorias," whispered Gough, fixing the faunus with a baleful eye, "that was a week ago."

"Fine."

"Hey Sun," said Ruby, looking up from their board game.

"Ruby, Yang, Blake… Ice Queen," he greeted.

"Why does everyone keep calling me that?"

 _It's appropriate, it's funny. The list is almost endless._

 _Okay, the list has two points. Almost. Endless._

"I never got a chance to introduce you to my old friend," said Sun.

"Aren't libraries for reading?" Neptune wondered.

"Lame," Artorias teased.

"Yeah man, don't be a nerd," said Sun.

"I prefer _intellectual,_ okay? Thank you." Neptune said. He sighed, squared his shoulders, put on his best smile, and waved. "I'm Neptune."

"So Neptune, where are you from?" Weiss asked.

"Haven," he said, strolling leisurely around the table to stand next to the heiress. "And I don't believe I've caught your name, Snow Angel."

"Um… I'm Weiss." A coy smile spread on her face, and she subconsciously pushed her chest out a little.

"Are you kidding me?" the blond boy at the other table complained. Artorias recognised him from the food fight. But, alas, his complaint went ignored.

"Pleasure to meet you," said Neptune.

"I never took you as the board-game-playing type," Sun said, leaning against the table next to Blake. _Subtle, Sun._

"Right… well, I think I'm done playing, actually. I'll see you guys later." She put her cards on the table and stood, walking away.

" _Women,"_ said the ginger girl at the other table. She too had been a participant in the food fight.

A downright scary participant.

"I'm worried about her," said Ruby.

"Isn't that kind of her thing?" asked Artorias.

"Well, yeah, but this is basically her thing on steroids," said Yang. "That sounded way less weird in my head."

"I'm gonna go-"

"Leave her be, Sun," said Gough. "She needs space."

"…right."

There was a moment of awkward silence.

"Uh, so, the other team from the food fight-"

"That's _us_!" said the ginger girl, interrupting Artorias. She bounced over to the table. "We're Team Juniper, _easily_ the best first years at Beacon."

"More like Team Loser-per," Yang joked. A collective groan arose from the students. Yang held a hand up. "Eh? Eh?"

Artorias rolled his eyes. "I won't leave you Yanging." He gave her a high-five.

"Don't encourage her lunacy!" Weiss said.

"Don't kick the puppy, Weiss-cream. He's a very good boy."

Ruby held her face in her hands. "Please… don't."

The blond boy from Team Juniper coughed, stepping up next to Neptune. "Yeah, we're Team _Juniper_ – not Loser-per, okay? Got it?" He sighed, and rubbed the back of his head. "I'm Jaune Arc." He gave his best smile. "Short, sweet, rolls off the tongue, ladies love it."

"I'll tell you what, _I_ certainly love it," Artorias teased. "I'm Artorias, the-"

"Wolfy, no. Nobody calls you that. Nobody will ever call you that," Yang said.

"Hey, you let him have it." He gestured to Jaune.

"Well, it's kinda all he's got."

"Hey!" said Jaune.

"That's Pyrrha," she pointed to the girl with hair very similar to Gilderoy's. Artorias had a vague sense of déjà vu, like he knew her from somewhere, but he couldn't quite place it.

 _Probably just the hair._

"Hello again!"

"That's Ren," Yang gestured to the boy with the pink lock in his hair. He nodded in greeting, before returning to his textbook.

"And that's-"

"Nora!" Nora cut in, a wide smile on her face.

"-a public menace," Yang finished.

"I'm really worried about Blake," Ruby muttered again, her face downcast.

"As am I," Gough said. "But she is your teammate, no? She trusts you? And you trust her?" _Wise-man Gough to the rescue, is it?_

"But-"

"Do you trust her to come to you when she is ready?"

They glanced at each other.

"She did say she would…" Weiss trailed off.

"Give her a chance to do so," Gough said. "I'm sure she will when she is ready. Now, do you mind if I join in on your game?"

 _Gough, you sly bastard._

"Ooh, can I pet your ears?" asked Nora, bouncing on her feet. "My other faunus friends won't let me…"

Artorias sent Yang a questioning look. She mouthed two words back to him: _public menace_.

"…sure?"

Nora let out a little giggle that had Artorias worrying for his safety.

"So, Artorias, how are you finding Vale?" asked Pyrrha politely.

"Oh, I grew up here, actually. Can't say I'm sorry I left, but it's not bad being back." He struggled to speak smoothly with Nora aggressively massaging his ears.

He could see why nobody else let her.

"Really? I mean, I haven't been there myself, but Vacuo sounds kinda…"

"Chaotic? Unlawful? Disorderly?" he finished Jaune's sentence for him.

"Uh, yeah."

"All part of the charm," he said. "Ow- okay, Nora, I think that's enough."

"Aww." She seemed despondent, but she stopped nevertheless, bouncing over to Ren and spouting some nonsense about a Beowolf.

"If you don't mind me asking," said Pyrrha, "why did you leave?"

Before Shade, he'd gone to Flare Academy, north-east of Vale, past Forever Fall, and he'd _excelled_ there.

It would have been easy to get into Beacon from Flare. It would have been more convenient too – his mother would have lived just a Bullhead ride away in Vale, and he'd have been physically close to the friends he'd made at Flare. Not that there had been that many friends. He'd been much more quiet in those days.

But that was _why_ he'd chosen Shade. He'd wanted to prove his independence, and he'd wanted a fresh start, and Beacon just hadn't been fresh enough.

In his opinion, he'd made good use of that fresh start.

"I wanted to get away from home," he shrugged, keeping his answer simple. "It worked."

"I can understand that," Pyrrha said, nodding, but it was clear she didn't want to elaborate, and so Artorias didn't push.

"What about you, Ladykiller?" he asked Jaune. "You from around here?"

His face drained of colour. "Uh, well, I'm from a town on the edge of the kingdom, and Beacon was closest, so… I came here." Like Pyrrha, it was obvious that he didn't want to talk about it, so Artorias again decided to leave it alone.

"Actually, I was wondering, we've seen you and the big guy around before – hi, by the way – but I don't think I've seen your other teammates," said Jaune.

"Ciaran's not very social," he said. "I mean, she _can_ be social if she has to be, but she prefers to hole up in bed with a pile of books. She's cool though. And Gil, my partner – well, I argue with him a lot. Makes it difficult to stay in the same circles. But I have it on good authority he's a decent guy, when I'm not around," he laughed.

Pyrrha seemed unsettled. "How long have you two been like that?"

"Uh…" It had started around the time that Gil had first brought up his post-graduation ambitions, towards the end of their first semester. Even then, Artorias had thought that Vacuo didn't need a military, or even a strong law enforcement unit – everyone in Vacuo took the law into their own hands, but they all had a healthy respect for one another, so things rarely escalated. Sure, it was a little wild compared to the other kingdoms, but Artorias had come to appreciate the freedom, and he didn't want to see Gilderoy, or anyone else, strip it away.

But they'd still been able to ignore it, pretend that everything was fine. It had only been when Gil had started dating Smough, during the last Vytal Festival, that things had gotten out of hand.

"Like, around two years?" he guessed. He couldn't remember the exact date or anything, but it sounded about right.

"I can't imagine how frustrating that must be," said Pyrrha.

"Yeah," agreed Jaune. "I mean, when Cardin and I used to, uh… hang out, yeah, it was pretty hard on me and Pyr. But you know, that was only for like a few weeks."

"Eh, it's not so bad," Artorias said. "Put us in a room full of Grimm, we'll tear the place apart, no arguing, no nonsense. It's just off the battlefield that things go a little haywire."

"Still," pushed Jaune, "that really sucks."

"It works for us," Gough called from the other table. The wolf snorted to himself – Gough had given up on solving Artorias and Gilderoy's issues long ago. These days, he only ran damage control. It was exhausting, but sure, it 'worked', in a way.

"Let it go. Now, Yang, you say I have an army of Ursai under my command…?"

* * *

 **Some Oobl-exposition going on there. This felt pretty filler-y, but I assure you I included this chapter for a reason, not just to retread the canon story beats. But, to make up for how filler-y it feels, I've decided to double-post this coming week. Next chapter will be on Tuesday, then I'll return to the normal Friday update schedule.**

 **Next chapter - March 21st.**


	5. Chapter 4: Investigation

Gilderoy darted forwards, twirling his bident in front of him to push aside the bearded axe. His opponent – another student by the name of Creighton, if his memory proved correct – stepped backwards rapidly under Gilderoy's assault, swinging his axe upwards again and again to block Gilderoy's strikes.

Eventually, Gilderoy drove him back to the arena's edge, where he'd be disqualified for leaving, and the other student held his ground. Gilderoy fired off one shot, two, from the end of his weapon, the built-in shotgun pressuring Creighton's defence while the recoil repositioned the bident for a powerful strike.

Gilderoy grasped the bident by its crossguard with his left hand and by the shaft with his right, then drove it forwards and upwards. At the very last second, Creighton skittered sideways, lashing out with his axe. The hook (or beard, Gilderoy supposed) of the axe caught between the bident's blades, and Creighton tugged, hard, forcing Gilderoy to relinquish his grip to avoid being pulled over. The weapon clattered to the ground, and Creighton kicked it away.

Creighton advanced.

Gilderoy let out a growl and pushed his aura into his coat, concentrating hard to get the desired results. Runes, embroidered into the fabric with yellow shock dust, sparked at his mind's touch, and the world grew a little slower. _Focus, Gilderoy._

He leaned sideways, narrowly dodging a strike aimed at his neck, then ducked beneath another. He reached in, past Creighton's guard, trying to disarm him in turn, but Creighton spun his weapon, the haft striking Gilderoy across the knuckles. Gilderoy tried to disengage and run for his weapon, but Creighton was surprisingly quick for a man in full chainmail, positioning himself between Gilderoy and his weapon.

Creighton swung his weapon at range – to Gilderoy's surprise, the axe's head detached, a chain extending from the haft of the weapon. The axehead itself flew towards him, swinging like a flail. Gilderoy barely dodged it before it rocketed back to Creighton, becoming a simple axe once again.

Gilderoy growled again, and whispered, "Blessed was Ornstein, swiftest of knights."

He felt the appropriate runes respond on his coat, properly this time.

He chanted the phrase in his mind again and again, adding in another passage (another line of runes began to glow accordingly), coaxing the dust to aid him. Time moved noticeably slower now; Creighton grew sluggish, and the faint whispers from the audience grew quieter.

To them, he must have been like a bolt of lightning, dashing towards his weapon, leaping over a slow swing from Creighton.

 _Blessed was Ornstein, swiftest of knights. Lockhart's child lit the night with song. Blessed was Ornstein…_

He rolled as he reached the bident, his fingers grasping around the shaft. His back foot slammed against the ground as he came up, halting his momentum, then he exploded forwards once again, still chanting in his head.

The head of the bident came up, batting the axe aside as it came down to meet him, opening Creighton's guard. Gilderoy turned into the movement, allowing momentum to carry his shoulder into Creighton's chest. His concentration lapsed with the impact, and the dust died down, but he no longer needed it. He kept spinning, body and weapon, and the bident came streaking upwards once again, this time colliding with Creighton's chin, lightning sparking out from the dust-lined blade on impact. Creighton flew backwards, head jerking up before he came crashing down to the ground.

"That's the match," Professor Goodwitch said.

Gilderoy nodded, slinging his weapon onto his back. He walked over to Creighton and offered a him a hand up. The other student – from Beacon, if he recalled – gratefully took it, and Gilderoy pulled him to his feet.

"Mr Wend, while I commend you for seeing a weakness in your opponent's equipment and capitalising on it, I would certainly recommend that you learn to combat those more agile than yourself."

"I'll work on it," said Creighton.

"And Mr Ornstein – I find your mastery of shock dust to be very impressive, but you should find a way to correct the weakness exploited in this match, whether by modifying your weapon or your style."

Gilderoy nodded. Hollow praise, as far as he was concerned – he had a semblance to help him out, after all. But few knew about that, and he hoped to keep it that way.

And as for his weapon?

It had been an issue on the rare occasions Artorias had deigned to spar with him. The wolf fought dirtier than most Hunters, incorporating grabs and grapples into his arsenal. Artorias' sword was threatening, but he was more dangerous up close, where his half-brawling style could catch an opponent off guard.

Even though he was familiar with Artorias' style, Gilderoy struggled to combat it. Such sparring matches had often come down to Artorias levering his own weapon against him, but the wolf's style was a rare one. He hadn't anticipated that Creighton's axe would prove so apt in a similar role.

Perhaps he could convince Artorias to spar with him again soon, just to practice.

"That is all for today," said Professor Goodwitch. "Not everyone has had a chance to spar, but I expect that you've all been paying close attention, and have learned from your peers' bouts. There will be more opportunities next lesson, of course. Class dismissed."

/-/

"Hey Art, I was at lunch with Team Ruby, right, and they're totally planning something!"

"Yeah?" Artorias drew a line on the piece of paper where he knew he should put the title of the essay.

He didn't write one in.

"Yeah, man, they were giving each other these subtle looks – except they weren't really that subtle, you know the type – and they kept referring to this mysterious 'later' when they would be busy. And Blake was actually eating lunch with them, so, you know, that's kinda rare these days. They're definitely up to something. Like, wow, they're bad at keeping secrets." Sun punched him lightly in the arm. "You listening, man?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm listening." It wasn't like he was working on the essay, that was for sure. He'd so far managed to write down one word – 'the' – as part of the title.

And he'd scratched that word out.

It wasn't that he didn't know what it was he needed to write. He just… didn't want to _start._

"So… you thinking we should get in on their whatever-it-is?" Sun hedged.

Artorias sighed, and scribbled down an actual title: 'Vale-Atlas Alliance'. Nothing too creative, but it got the point across – after all, that was what the essay was about.

Or what it _would_ be about.

He scratched the title out again, tore the page out of his book, bunched it up, and tossed it in the bin.

"I'm in."

"Sweet. I've already talked to Gough-"

"When?" Artorias had been with Gough not half an hour ago.

"-and Neptune and we've got a plan already, but big man's not coming along – said he wants to chill with Gil – but he's just gonna give us a hand, you know? Anyway, just wanted to get you on board."

He shut his book. "I said I'm in, and I'm in. What's the plan?"

/-/

Artorias gave Gough a thumbs-up in thanks from his perch – a tiny ledge, some twelve stories above the ground. Gough stowed his bow, returned a wave, then gave his attention to Gil and Ciaran again.

"I had no idea he could do that," Neptune said.

"Neither did I, to be honest," Artorias said, scratching the back of his head. "Lotta fun though."

"I was your test dummy?"

"Guys! Quiet," Sun said, clambering up a nearby tree. "They'll hear you."

"Don't we want them to know we're here so they include us…?"

"Where's your flair for the dramatic, Art?" Sun rolled his eyes, climbed a little higher, and wrapped his tail around a branch, hanging upside down.

"I…" Artorias stopped for a second to consider it. "Fine."

"Great, we'll meet up tonight near Yang to go over what we found. Let's do this!" Ruby's voice floated out the window.

"Yeah!" said Sun. _Come on, you call that dramatic?_

"Sun!?" Artorias could hear the girls scramble away from the window. "How did you get up there?"

"It's easy, I do it all the time." _Oh dear._

"You do _what?_ " Weiss asked.

"I climb trees all the time." Sun flipped in through the window. "So, are we finally getting back at that Torchwick guy?"

" _We_ are going to investigate the situation. As a _team._ "

"Sorry, Sun, we don't want to get friends involved if we don't have to."

"Pfft. That's dumb. You should always get friends involved. That's why I brought Art and Neptune!"

The girls' heads poked out the window.

"Sup," said Neptune.

"Yo," said Artorias.

"How did you even get up here?" asked Ruby.

"Gough helped," Artorias said, pointing down.

"Good afternoon!" Gough called.

"Oh…" Ruby nodded in understanding, though the rest of her team remained confused.

"Seriously though, can we come in? We're like, really high up right now," said Neptune.

They climbed in through the window. "Are we getting Gough up here too? Or…" Yang trailed off.

"Nah, don't want to pull him away from his team. I tried inviting them too, but I don't think Gil likes me that much," Sun said, shrugging.

"Aren't we pulling _you_ away from your team?" Weiss asked, directing the question to Artorias.

"I… well, you know, Gil and I argue a lot. Probably best to let them have their peace." He ran a hand through his silver hair.

"Alrighty then. So, I'll still go with Weiss. Sun, Wolfy, you go with Blake. And Neptune, you can go with Yang, since she doesn't have a partner." Ruby dragged the blue-haired boy over to her sister. "Everyone good?"

"Actually, Ruby, why don't you go with Yang? After all, she _is_ your sister." But Weiss' focus wasn't on Ruby or Yang – her eyes were focused on Neptune. _Oh, I see what you're doing._ _You want to go with eight-in-bad-lighting, don't you?_

 _I dig it._

"But Weiss, who would go with you then?"

"Neptune could," Artorias offered, shooting Weiss a wink.

Yang stirred. "You know, I'd rather _not_ take Ruby along, it's kind of-"

"Ruby can come with us too, that's cool," Neptune cut in. "And Art can go with Yang." Artorias didn't miss the less-than-subtle wink that Neptune gave Sun. _I hope I wasn't that obvious._

"Yeah, I mean, it's probably better not to have too many people sneaking into a White Fang party, you know? Keep a low profile," Sun said.

"Right. Neptune and I will go with Weiss, Artorias can go with Yang, and Blake and Sun can go together."

"We're not-" Blake started.

"Yep! We're cool," Yang said, grinning devilishly at Blake and pulling Artorias out the door. "C'mon, Wolfy. Don't make me hound you."

"Xiao Long are you gonna keep doing that?"

"Gotta keep a leash on you somehow."

"Don't encourage her!" Blake yelled.

/-/

" _Don't_ ruin this," Weiss growled. Neptune trailed a few steps behind her and Ruby, either thankfully oblivious (or respectively distant) from their conversation.

"Weiss, what could I possibly ruin? You're just calling home, right?"

She didn't understand at all, the dunce. What if Artorias hadn't stepped in to suggest that Neptune accompany her? Would Ruby have even considered it, had it come from her mouth? Maybe yes, maybe no.

Ruby respected Artorias, though, even if his wisdom was often… questionable. And, for whatever reason, the older student was on Weiss' side.

 _Don't get distracted._ _Ruby, Neptune,_ _problem!_

"Look, just try not to be so… _immature_ , okay?" Or maybe that was the wrong approach. Ruby's foolish ways made her own respectable, prim, _mature_ attitude stand out, after all.

But no! She wouldn't resort to such underhanded tactics. She was a Schnee, and she could stand out all by herself, thank you very much.

"You didn't lie to your family about the team leader thing, did you?" asked Ruby.

"No!" _And it's not about my family!_

"…okay."

"I can't say I've seen Beacon's transmit tower up close, yet," said Neptune, coming alongside them, startling Weiss.

"You should see the one in Atlas," she commented, maintaining her composure.

"Wasn't that the first one?"

"Correct." She winced at the word – too surgical, too precise, too formal. "Atlas developed the cross-continental transmit system to allow the four kingdoms to communicate with one another," she elaborated. "It was their gift to the world after the Great War."

"Ooo, look at me, my name is Weiss, I-" Ruby cut herself off on seeing Weiss' glare. "Sorry."

Weiss suppressed a sigh. _Well, at least I look oh so very mature now. Silver linings?_

"Don't be a pest," accused Weiss. "Besides, the only reason we're here is because _you_ like the tower so much. We could have just as easily made a call from the library."

"I think it's pretty cool," said Neptune. "I don't know much about the technical side or anything, but just what it stands for. Might as well make sure I get a close look at it before I go back to Haven, right?"

"Oh, of course," said Weiss. _The CCT is cool now, got it?_ "It _is_ a technological marvel, that's true."

"Is that… Penny?"

"Ruby, we haven't seen Penny since-"

"Penny! You two go, do your call-thing-whatever, I'm gonna go find out what happened!"

"Ruby!" _Wait! Actually… don't wait. This is perfect!_

"Go!" called Ruby, dashing away.

 _Just perfect._

"She seems capable. Don't worry, she'll be fine," assured Neptune.

"She's too easily distracted," Weiss countered automatically, forgetting for a second that Ruby was inadvertently helping her. "Focus is important for a Huntress," she explained.

Neptune shrugged. "I think it's important to let people be who they are. Everyone grows up eventually."

Weiss looked at him. He seemed so nonchalant saying it too – it was almost like he meant it.

He _did_ mean it.

"It could get her killed." Ruby could be insufferable at times, but Weiss still considered her a friend – she certainly wouldn't wish death on her.

They stepped into the elevator, and Weiss put her scroll into the terminal instantly, cutting off the automated system. "Communications room, please."

"Welcome, Miss Schnee. I'll need your companion to identify themselves as well. Could you please place your scroll on the-"

Neptune presented his scroll and the automated voice halted in its tracks. "Welcome, Mr Vasilias."

The elevator began to rise.

"Being a Hunter is going to get us killed more likely than not," Neptune said. "I mean, sure, it's not ideal, but she'll grow out of it. Let her enjoy it while she can."

"What if it takes her too long to 'grow out of it'?" Weiss argued. _Is this a fight? Are we fighting?_ "She needs to learn the lesson now, not when lives are at stake."

"Well, when you put it like that," Neptune said, "I can see your point. But we all have our vices. I'm no different. I bet you're not either."

"Excuse me?" Weiss wasn't so arrogant as to think she was _perfect_ – but she could say confidently that any major shortcoming of hers was not a result of some _vice_ , but her inexperience. She was only a first year, after all.

"What I'm saying is," Neptune said slowly, "There are situations where I'd probably fail my team," he admitted. "Not because of overwhelming odds or anything, just because – I mean, I'd just freeze up." He shrugged calmly, although his tense jaw betrayed that he'd unwittingly strayed into an uncomfortable topic.

"Look, I still don't know Ruby that well, but I think when it comes to a life-or-death situation, she'd have a one-track mind," he said.

"I suppose you're right," Weiss sighed. And, deep down, she knew that he was. When push came to shove, she was sure that Ruby would pull through. "But it wouldn't hurt her to be a little more mature, sometimes."

"That's reasonable," Neptune said, seemingly relieved. The elevator dinged open, and they stepped out side by side.

" _Welcome to the Beacon Cross-Continental Transmit Centre. How may I help you?"_

"I need to make a call to Schnee Company World Headquarters in Atlas."

" _Absolutely. If you could head over to Terminal 3, I'll patch you through."_

"Thank you." She knew it was only an A.I., and a crude one at that, but it was good to be polite.

"So about this call – you want me to hang off to the side?" Neptune asked, walking a little behind her.

"That would probably be best, thank you Neptune." She was the best equipped to handle the talking, and if the secretary were to see Neptune over her shoulder – or worse, if she got roped into a call with Winter, _Father…_

That could be bad.

"So Neptune, what's this situation?"

"Hmm?"

"Where you'd let your team down?" she pressed.

He pursed his lips, if only for a second, but then a brilliant, disarming smile crossed his face. "The secrets make the man," he winked.

Weiss laughed softly, and sat in front of the terminal, but froze up before turning it on.

 _What do I say?_

"Are you alright, Weiss?"

Her reflection stared back at her. She fixed her posture and put on a pleasant smile.

"I'm fine," she said.

She turned on the terminal.

/-/

Solaire noticed the girl as he polished down a table.

A pink bow in ginger hair, wearing a short dress of grey-ish green, highlighted with brighter greens. Green was a nice colour - he approved.

But he thought he recognised her - they'd never spoken, but he could have sworn that he'd passed her by a few times back at Atlas Academy. And, whether or not they knew each other, she looked concerned. Frightened, even - her shoulders were hunched a bit, and she glanced side to side nervously.

"Excuse me – I don't mean to intrude, but you look rather worried. Can I help?"

The ginger girl turned to look at the person addressing her. She looked him up and down, once – he was dressed in black, with a half-apron: the uniform of a waiter. Not his usual attire, to be sure, but she seemed to recognise him.

"I'm fine, thank you," she said, followed by a small *hic*. "I'm just waiting for a friend."

"Do you mind if I keep you company? Business is a little slow today."

"I'm not supposed to talk to anyone," she said.

"Ah, but there's the thing – I asked if _you_ minded, not whoever it is telling you otherwise," Solaire grinned. "If you object, worry not: I'll leave you be."

She turned to look at him directly, her head tilted to the left a little in thought. "I would like that," she said.

The waiter walked around the café's small fence to stand next to her and leaned against it. "I am Solaire," he said, offering to shake her hand. She nervously reciprocated.

"My name is Penny," she said.

"You're a first year, right? Atlas?" She nodded, and Solaire grinned. "I'm a second year. How are you finding Vale?"

"I haven't had many opportunities to explore the city," she said, "but I like Beacon."

"I can agree with you there," said Solaire. "Say – have you seen the Emerald Forest?"

"I've seen it from Beacon," she said, "but I haven't actually been there yet."

"A shame. It's quite beautiful. The leaves filter the sunlight, you see, so the air takes on this amazing golden-green hue. Even just from the cliffs, you can hear the birds in the morning – they have beautifully pure voices. Nothing in Atlas quite compares."

"That sounds wonderful," Penny agreed.

"Excuse me?" a customer called, pointing to their empty mug.

"Duty calls," he said. "I won't be a moment."

When he returned, she was gone.

/-/

 _Dear Priscilla,_

 _I said I'd write to you, didn't I? Though I suspect it'll be a while before this reaches you. I can't exactly send it from the middle of nowhere._

 _There will be many letters, I'm sure. There is much I wish to share with you. The world is a big place, after all, with a lot of beauty. The desert is only a small part of that._

 _That's not to say that the desert is not vast. Remember that morning on the walls? The dunes stretched all the way to the horizon. But beyond the horizon, the desert has an end, as all things do. There is a mountain range to the south-east, with peaks rising far up above the clouds._

 _I know you want to see the world beyond the desert. I don't know that you'd like mountain passes, but it would be remiss of me to not recount all the world. A mountain pass is cold – colder than even the coldest night in Vacuo. The wind bites into you, dry and fierce, and it burns your skin red even faster than the sun._

 _Sometimes, a pass will rise so high that you enter the clouds themselves. I know that sounds wonderful, but the world of clouds is quiet – the air is thick, and your words do not carry far. It's a little lonely. I must show you in person one day. It'd be far less lonely with you, I'm sure._

 _I had the misfortune of being caught in a storm during my travels there. Lightning is far more strange in the hands of nature itself. But it's beautiful, too – without the power of the sun, it arrives in flashes of brilliant blue and purple, illuminating the silhouettes of stone peaks around you. And the noise – you've heard the distant rolling of thunder, but here it crashes around you, echoing off the rocky crags in a humbling, deafening cacophony._

 _I am enjoying travelling the world again, but I look forward most to sharing it with you, Priscilla._

 _Your brother._

 _I love you, little Yorshka._

* * *

 **Giggidy.**

 **Next chapter - March 24th.**


	6. Chapter 5: Painting the Town

"Your bike is _gaudy_."

"Stylish."

"Blindingly bright."

"Just like my personality."

"Damaging?"

"I could just leave you behind, you know."

"Dogs aren't allowed to wander around in public without a leash except in designated parks."

"Fine. Get on, and _don't_ touch the hair."

/-/

 _It isn't safe to talk here._

Those words had reverberated through Ruby's mind on her way into Vale.

Why wouldn't she talk about the docks? _It isn't safe._

Even though she'd seen Penny not half an hour ago, at the CCT tower, a sense of relief flooded her when she saw the ginger girl standing outside the café, as they'd planned, waiting for her. Ruby laid a hand on her shoulder.

 _It isn't safe._

But Penny smiled at her, and motioned for them to walk, her eyes flicking back to the café briefly as they left.

 _She's safe now._

It wasn't too long before Penny spoke. "I wish I could help you, Ruby, but I don't know anything about those men."

"Well, what happened to you that night? We were all together, and then you just disappeared!" She leaned in closer, an idea occurring to her. "Were you kidnapped?"

"Oh, no! Nothing like that."

"Well then where did you go?"

"I've never been to another kingdom before. My father asked me not to venture out too far, but… you have to understand, my father loves me very much. He just worries a lot."

"Heh, believe me, I know the feeling," Ruby assured her. Penny's eyes lit up in a smile. "But, why not let us know you were okay?"

"I was asked not to talk to you, or the rest of Team Ruby, or Sun, or Artorias the Wolf-"

"We don't call him that," Ruby cut her off. "I guess your dad was really upset."

"No, it wasn't my father."

They rounded a corner to see a square. A projection of General Ironwood stood before some robots, explaining… something. Ruby wasn't listening too closely, focusing more on the robots – the new ones especially, as they kicked over their outdated counterparts.

 _They're so cool!_

"Ruby…"

And the – what did he call it? The Atlesian Paladin, he'd said. _So much gun!_

"Ruby, maybe we should go somewhere else," Penny suggested quietly.

Ruby looked to her friend, seeing her eyes widen at something, no, someone. Atlesian Soldiers – they pointed her out.

Penny ran.

"Penny? Wait! Where are you going?"

The soldiers had, by this point, proceeded beyond the pointing phase of their plan, and were giving chase.

Ruby's eyes widened.

 _It isn't safe._

/-/

"C'mon, my friend's right in here!" Yang said.

"Junior's club? Makes sense. I guess I see why you didn't want to bring Ruby." Artorias got off the bike, swept his hair back, and followed Yang to the doors.

"Eh, she's been here before, but yeah, that's basically it." If those guys in black suits and red glasses were bouncers, they were doing a terrible job, rushing away from Yang on sight.

"She has?"

"Well, she's been outside it. Long story."

"Xiao Long we talking?"

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Is that your only line?"

He shrugged. "Throw me a bone, would you? I'm a faunus, you have _so_ much more material there."

"Good point."

Artorias caught a brief glimpse of the dance floor and the bar before the doors were closed in their faces. From the other side, he heard shouts: "Junior, she's here! She's back!"

"So, last time you were here…"

"I trashed the place," she smirked, cocking Ember Celica. An explosive punch blew the doors open again, and she sauntered through them, a wild grin on her face. "Guess who's back!"

About two dozen firearms were pointed at her face.

"Fireball whiskey, straight," Artorias said, walking in behind her, pretending to ignore the weapons. He walked around the left side of the bouncers, but his approach was blocked by a pair of twin girls. From their posture, he could tell they had some level of close-quarter combat training. "Paying customer. C'mon."

"Nobody shoot!" He was only man not in a stupid hat and glasses – Junior himself. "Blondie… you're here. Why…?"

"You still owe me a drink," she said, grabbing him by the arm and pushing through the henchmen.

" _Thank_ you," Artorias said, following her. He could feel the twins glaring daggers into the back of his head. Junior went around behind the bar and mixed their drinks. Artorias slipped some lien across the bar and took a seat.

"Umbrella, Junior," said Yang, "don't tell me you've forgotten?"

He rolled his eyes, turned around, grabbed a tiny umbrella, and stuck it in her drink.

"So… Blondie. Why are you here?"

"Roman Torchwick. What's he up to?"

"I don't know."

"How can you not know?"

"I haven't talked to him. I haven't even seen him since the night you first came in here. He paid upfront, I lent him my men, and none of them ever came back."

Artorias drained his drink in one go, catching Yang's irritated glare. "Hey, I haven't had a drink since I left Shade, like… a year ago?" And what a good drink it was, leaving a pleasant burning at the back of his throat. He had no idea where this stuff had been made, but it was clearly high quality. Junior knew his drinks.

"Barely over a month, Art."

"Drink-time is different, gimme a break," he said. "And a refill, thanks." He put some more lien on the bar. Junior pocketed it and poured another drink.

She huffed and turned back to Junior. "I'm not leaving until I find out what I want," she threatened.

"I already told you everything. Torchwick hired my boys, and I guess he wasn't happy with them." He leaned further over the bar. "Which is something I can relate to!"

Yang sighed. "C'mon Art."

"What about Torchwick's associates?" Artorias asked, tracing a circle around the rim of his glass with a finger. "Even old news is good."

Junior's eyes narrowed. Artorias rolled his eyes and passed some more cash over the bar, ignoring the face Yang pulled. _Money talks, Yang._

"There's a girl – been his shadow for as long as I've known him. She's short, always dresses in white, brown, and pink. Mute, too."

"And how long have you known him?"

"Five years, give or take."

Artorias nodded. "The girl's name?"

"He calls her Neo. Probably not her real name, but it's all I've got."

"Have you heard from Neo recently?"

"She came in here alone, not too long after I last saw Roman. She had a note, she wanted to get in contact with a forger."

"Who'd you send her to?" Yang asked.

"Ben Yarrow." He shifted uncomfortably.

"Address, scroll number… any contact details?"

Junior remained silent.

"I see. It's not good business to sell out a contact. Well," said Artorias, slipping a considerable amount of lien onto the bar, "why not just pretend we're looking to get something forged ourselves?"

Junior pocketed it, and grabbed a napkin, scribbling down an address. Artorias almost missed the tenseness in his shoulders, or the way his fingers fumbled with the napkin tray. Almost.

Junior was still withholding information. _Well, at least I can get that lien back._

"Any other contacts? White Fang, perhaps?" Artorias asked.

"Not that I'm aware of." That one, at least, was honest.

"What about the woman in red? Surely you've at least _heard_ about her," Yang asked. _Oh? The woman in red? Who's that?_

"It'll cost you," Junior said. Artorias easily caught the smirk that flitted across the larger man's face, but he knowingly walked into it anyway, sliding another wad of cash towards him. He winked at Yang as he did so, and she raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"Get me another refill, while you're at it," he said.

Junior poured another drink, and Artorias raised it to his lips the moment it was pressed into his hand.

"Heard nothing," Junior confirmed with a victorious grin.

Artorias' glass was already empty, and he slammed it down onto the bar with his right hand. With his gauntleted left, he reached across the bar, grabbed Junior's tie, and pulled him over the bar, all in one fluid motion. The very moment Junior hit the ground, he reached into the man's pocket to retrieve his lien.

"I was hoping you'd say that," he said, a wolfish grin of his own spreading across his face. "Now, there's something about Yarrow that you're not telling us," he said.

Didn't he know Yang had trashed the place? Did he just miss the memo? Crossing the same person more than once was a bad, _bad_ move. Especially for a shady business like Junior's.

"Get f- argh!" Artorias pressed his knee to the small of the man's back, holding him down.

"Back off!" Yang yelled, and Artorias looked up. Her gauntlets were deployed. They were surrounded, but the henchmen were all quivering in fear. _Nothing to worry about, then._

"We've been very patient with you," Artorias said. "I'd like to think I'm a patient person, but that doesn't mean I enjoy it. I'm going to give you one more chance. You're going to tell us _everything_ you left out about Yarrow, and you are going to tell your men to piss off before they piss themselves. If you lie, I'll know. Trust me."

Junior's head bobbed in an awkward nod, and Artorias lifted his knee. "Back off, nobody shoot."

As the henchmen once again dispersed, Artorias stood, heaving Junior to his feet. "Talk. And get me another drink. One for the road, right?"

"Yarrow went missing a few weeks back. The police don't know, there might be something in his house, but Yarrow's gone."

Artorias drained his glass again. He blinked as he straightened a little too quickly, the world just a little fuzzier than he'd remembered. His senses were taken by a flash of green and the scent of sweet smoke, and for a second he thought it was a quiet afternoon in Izalith.

He shook his head, and he was back in Junior's bar. Yang made some parting quip to Junior before dragging him away.

He heard Junior grumbling under his breath as they left.

"Not bad, Wolfy," Yang grinned. "Like a bloodhound."

"New rule: until I get some top shelf Yang Xiao Long specific material, you're not allowed to compare me to random dogs. I'm a _wolf_ , dammit, not some house pet."

"Boring," she scoffed. "And no scathing retort? I'm disappointed in you. Are you running out of low quality Xiao Long jokes?"

"Got a Xiao Long way to go before we reach that point."

She stopped in her tracks.

"I know I said low quality, Wolfy, but… that was something else." Her brow furrowed, and she held up a finger, pulling out her scroll.

" _Everyone,"_ Blake said, _"if you can hear me we need ba-"_

" _HEEEEEELP!"_ Sun interrupted. _"They got a robot, and it's big, really big! That Torchwick guy's in it! But not like – it didn't eat him, he's like, controlling it or something!"_

"Where are you guys?" Yang asked.

"HURRY!" Sun screamed, as he ran past the alley. He was closely followed by the aforementioned giant robot. _Ah. Right._

"So I was thinking I have an essay to write…"

"Get on!"

The bike tore off down the street in chase of the robot. After a few tight corners that almost threw Artorias off, they went up a ramp onto a highway. The robot was throwing cars left and right, chasing relentlessly after Sun and Blake.

"We gotta slow it down!" Yang said.

"Hey, random question, totally not related at all, do you know much about dust? Like, how to use it?"

" _Not_ the time, Artorias!"

"Okay, it's actually serious question, maybe slightly related," he said, pulling an ice dust crystal from a pouch at his belt. "Because I have no idea."

"Just do something!" Yang roared.

"Alright! I'm on it!" He switched the dust to his right hand and drew his dagger with his left, leaping from the back of the bike and impaling the robot with his weapon.

 _What does Gil do?_

"The winds did something, bless the whatever- ah, fuck it."

He gripped the crystal and punched the robot as hard as he could.

Pain shot up his arm as it, and a sizeable chunk of the robot, were enveloped in ice. The robot strained against it, and a few cracks formed, but the added weight was throwing off its stride. Although it seemed to be trying to throw him off, the ice was restricting its movement.

But Artorias was still stuck to it, rather uncomfortably too.

He tore his dagger from the robot and sheathed it, then laid his left hand on the block of ice and channelled his aura through it. After the third pulse, some of the ice cracked and his arm came loose. His left shoulder hit the tarmac first, scratching his pauldron, and he rolled – once, twice, then he regained control, and leapt atop a car as it sped past. Yang came up alongside the vehicle, and, with a carefree whoop, he jumped onto the back of her bike again.

"You're like a dog chasing cars," she said wryly.

"Except I know what to do when I catch them," he grinned. "More or less." Ice still encased his right arm from his wrist up to his shoulder, and he leaned backwards to smash the arm down on the road. The ice shattered.

" _I'm in position!"_ Weiss' voice came from over Yang's scroll, and up ahead, he saw her in the middle of the road, rapier poised. Cars swerved to avoid her, but she stood her ground.

"You alright?" Yang asked.

"It'll warm up in a few," he said, massaging his right shoulder.

The robot still continued its relentless charge, chasing down Blake. But Sun had doubled back and pounced on the thing's back. Neptune had arrived too, and had done the same, and together they were doing their best to bash it to pieces.

"You reckon Team Ruby can handle the robot?"

"Small game. Why?"

"I'll grab Sun and Neptune; we'll watch out for an escape vehicle."

"But-"

"There's _always_ an escape vehicle, Yang. Trust me." _I've had experience._

She nodded. The robot slipped on a patch of ice that Weiss made, sending Sun and Neptune flying from its back as it fell to the ground far below. Yang brought the bike skidding to a halt. Artorias was off it in an instant, sprinting over to the duo from Haven. He reached them just as they struggled to their feet.

"Neptune, ground level! Keep your distance, eyes open for an escape vehicle – probably a Bullhead. Sun, upper highway, same deal. I'll keep watch from here."

Sun rubbed his back. "You got it, man." Neptune nodded, vaulting over the railing. Sun, after another moment to crack his neck, leapt for a support column and scaled the smooth surface like it was only a ladder.

The world below was shrouded by fog. Within, he could just make out the vague shape of the robot, and the occasional disturbance where a member of Team RWBY was dashing about. The sound of metal striking metal reached him, and a few times he saw explosions from the robot's cannons.

The fog finally cleared as the robot fired a number of guided rockets towards Blake. The girl dived to the centre of a time-dilation glyph (not quite as impressive as Winter's, perhaps, but admirable) and struck at the missiles dizzyingly fast. Ruby dashed in then, as the glyph wore off, and Blake followed, the pair practically running circles around the robot.

When the robot finally caught up to them, they leapt high, bringing their weapons crashing down to sever the robot's arm.

Then came Yang, capitalising on the robot's disorientation, and she jumped on top of it, slamming her fist into it again and again. In retaliation, the robot dashed through one, two, _three_ concrete pillars, knocking Yang off – then it punched her through a fourth for good measure.

 _Get up,_ he thought. _Come on, get up!_

And she did. Her hair was glowing bright, and though he was watching from quite a distance, Artorias could have sworn her eyes had turned red.

When the robot punched again, she caught it, and struck back with a roar, blowing the arm apart. She was kicked away, but Ruby shouted out an order, and Blake threw Yang her ribbon, pulling hard and acting as a fulcrum for Yang's momentum. Artorias' eyes were transfixed, watching her – her hair burned in a trail behind her as she spun, building up speed and power – then her fist came crashing into the robot, breaking it apart like an egg to expose Torchwick.

 _Well, seems like fire puns are on the menu._

Then a familiar humming reached his ears. A Bullhead.

He looked for it – it was at a low altitude, flying even below the highways, approaching fast.

"Sun! Boost us!" Above him, he saw the monkey faunus nod. He took a stoic stance, concentrating hard, and a single dim clone of himself appeared. It dropped down, and Artorias leapt, using it as a stepping stone to propel him into the Bullhead. Below, he saw it catch Neptune's jump and throw him too into the ship. Artorias drew his sword in anticipation.

Roman Torchwick and a short girl – from her clothes, Artorias guessed it was Neo – just… _appeared_ in the Bullhead.

Torchwick rolled his eyes when he spotted the wolf. "I've been having a really bad day, Blue," said the crook, gesturing to Artorias' cloak as he grabbed his cane.

"Well, we're kinda on a timer here anyway, so let's cut the pre-fight banter?"

"That's just rude," Torchwick said, but he bowed in acknowledgement. Neo vaulted over him as he ducked, aiming a kick for Artorias' chest. Neptune crossed between them, twirling his trident to block the kick, and he and Neo engaged in a fierce exchange of blows, moving to the opposite end of the airship. Meanwhile, Artorias found himself crossing weapons with Roman Torchwick in a Bullhead. Again.

"So how about mid-fight banter?" Torchwick laughed, masterfully redirecting Artorias' assault.

"I find it's appreciated more amongst friends."

"So you _do_ have a bark. Only a five for delivery, but I'll give you an eight for content," Torchwick grinned. "Goggles, you're up!" He twirled his cane, catching Artorias' sword, and delivered a punch to the chest that left the wolf staggering back into the Bullhead's wall. Instead of pressing the advantage, Torchwick turned, his weapon striking his diminutive companion. Rather than take the hit, Neo seemed to shatter – and suddenly she was in front of Artorias, her weak but quick kicks threatening to overwhelm him. A wicked grin was plastered on her face.

"Well, at least one of us seems to be having a good time," Artorias winked. He batted aside a kick and went on the offensive, but Neo ducked and weaved with ease, her parasol catching what few blows she couldn't dodge, her smile broadening in joy. She _lived_ for this.

Seriously though. _Who fights with a parasol?_ He let out a short bark of laughter at the thought, and Neo looked at him strangely.

"I guess both of us are enjoying ourselves, then," he said. She jumped back slightly and held a hand to her chest in mock surprise.

"Artorias!" Neptune yelled, as Roman kicked him from the Bullhead. The wolf made the mistake of turning.

A fierce pain erupted in the back of his head.

He turned back to Neo, his eyes narrowed. She was standing well back, against the opposite wall, an innocent smile on her face. At his accusing look, she pouted.

"Neo, _what_ did I tell you about making friends?" Roman said.

She gave Torchwick a rather rude gesture, then gave Artorias an apologetic shrug.

 _Is she serious?_

Neo rolled her eyes at his confusion, then attacked again. Her assault became more of a dance – she weaved in and out of his guard, every light tap of her feet pushing him only a little off balance before he recovered. He found himself grinning back at her in delight. He danced with her now, dagger in left hand and greatsword in right, her more aggressive assault leaving a few openings for him to strike back. Some of those retaliations even landed, although they still seemed ineffectual.

Apparently Roman got sick of their little routine. Artorias landed a particularly strong blow that bounced off Neo's aura, but left her reeling, and so Torchwick joined the fray. Between the two of them, they made quick work of Artorias, pushing him the short way backwards until he had nowhere else to go but down.

He hooked his left arm around Neo and leapt from the Bullhead.

They grappled briefly as they fell, trying to gain the advantage. After a short struggle, Neo escaped his grasp. She gave him a menacing smile and a salute, then she disappeared.

She reappeared shortly afterwards in the Bullhead, waving at him as the ground rushed upwards.

 _No fair._

Unlike the last time he'd fallen a considerable distance from a Bullhead, he righted himself before he struck the ground, landing on his feet. His knees buckled with the impact, but at least he didn't crack his head.

"Nice of you to drop by," Yang said with a smirk, sauntering over to him. Her team followed behind, with Weiss and Sun supporting Neptune. He must have had a rougher landing.

"Just following the trail you blazed," he responded.

It took about a second for Yang to process it, but when she did, her face lit up with a broad smile, and she turned to Weiss.

" _That's_ how it's done."

* * *

 **I decided to leave in that Ruby/Penny part purely to illustrate that no, Penny meeting Solaire didn't change anything in the short term. In terms of the story's flow, it might be a little jarring to cut away from Ruby there and then have her appear at the Paladin fight without going over Penny's robot reveal, but eh, it'll do.**

 **I've put a lot of thought into "who can beat whom" and "what counters this character".**

 **Artorias has lost to Torchwick twice now (granted, he had backup this time). But Artorias is actually among the stronger students - Torchwick just counters him. Hard. Neo counters him a little bit as well, although in a 1v1 it'd be a shaky victory for her at best.**

 **In tournament-style 1v1s, Artorias is one of only two students I've listed as being able to reliably stalemate/maybe beat Pyrrha, the other one being Havel. Artorias also matches favourably against all but three students. Havel is, again, one of those students. Can you smell what the Rock is cooking?**

 **Havel is also an absolute joy to write. He is my new dialogue waifu.**

 **Next chapter - March 31st.**


	7. Chapter 6: Delicate Matters

**The Ringed City is pretty good. It adds the Ruin helm, and some other stuff.**

 **All hail Chariotdude.**

* * *

"He's had a good start," said Gough.

Ciaran looked up from her notepad. Artorias was sparring with a man in heavy black armour, the greatsword in his hand nearly as long as Artorias was tall, and with a rectangular shield stretching from the ground up to his shoulder. The man in black cut an imposing figure, but the wolf danced around him effortlessly, a wild grin on his face. He hadn't drawn his dagger, instead wielding his greatsword deftly in his right hand and grappling, punching, and pulling with his left.

"He's not trying," she said.

"He doesn't have to," shrugged Gough. It wasn't said judgementally, not at all. It was a statement of fact.

Ciaran returned to her notes. She was brainstorming a way to have the more headstrong members of her team, Artorias and Gilderoy, put their differences aside. They were only third year students, true, but graduation was creeping up on them faster than they seemed to realise.

She didn't want it all to end when they left Shade.

So far, the plan, if it could be called that, was to corner them at the dance and lock them in a room together until they sorted it out – possibly prefaced with a heartfelt, well-prepared speech. The dance was still a couple of weeks away, but it was the perfect opportunity, a night of friendship and high spirits. If there was one night that they'd be willing to give it a go, it was then.

Artorias was unbelievably stubborn when it came Gilderoy's military ambitions, but they could usually tiptoe around that one. The big problem, the irreconcilable difference, was Smough.

Smough had been horrible to Artorias when they'd first arrived at Shade. Artorias hadn't let it get him down, of course – the threats, the names, the occasional violent outburst – but he always gave as good as he got. Back then, Artorias would do anything to Smough – anything short of instigating the fights himself, at least. He still got a few detentions.

Eventually, Smough moved on to torment easier targets. It was probably at Gilderoy's request – it was when they started dating that he eased up on Artorias – but their wills still clashed on a regular basis. Artorias would step in to stop Smough whenever he tried to mess with other students, especially fellow faunus. Artorias found himself in a teacher's office at least once a fortnight, in those days.

But he always got detention with Professor June, which he didn't mind – or so he claimed. Smough, on the other hand, served detention with Professor Brim: an intelligent man and an excellent teacher, to be sure, but he was quite the bore.

It was obvious the faculty knew about Smough's racist tendencies, otherwise they wouldn't inflict Brim's unique brand of punishment upon him. But they'd never had the cause to take a more serious action until he'd attacked Quelaan.

The twins Quelaag and Quelaan were faunus – from the waist down, they had the bodies of spiders. Easy targets for a racist. Quelaag shied away from her heritage, preferring to make herself as scarce and as normal as possible.

Quelaan, on the other hand, revelled in it. She'd scared the other first years on orientation day by pretending that a massive spider was eating her. She'd filled the locker of her older sister Quelana with cobwebs on multiple occasions. She'd even done it to Ciaran once, mistaking her locker for Artorias' (she'd apologised profusely when she'd realised her mistake).

Then, one day, a few weeks into the semester, Gough had walked into Team Gwyn's dorm, and though Ciaran couldn't place it, something felt… off. He was silent, unnaturally so – he would often hum a little tune to himself, or be accompanied by the soft sound of a knife scraping against wood, but on that day, he was silent.

She'd asked him what had happened.

He'd muttered something unintelligible. Artorias. Smough. The spider twins.

She'd asked again.

Smough had goaded Quelaan into a fight in the courtyard. He had three years of experience on her. It had been doomed from the start. But he'd taken it too far. She was in a coma. Most of her legs were broken. Her ribs too. One arm had been dislocated. Then Artorias had arrived on the scene and stopped Smough.

At that point in the story, Artorias returned to the dorm. His aura must have been drained in the fight, for his lip was split and beneath a ragged hole in the side of his jerkin, grazed skin slowly leaked blood. He didn't say a word – just went to change into a clean shirt.

" _He could have killed her,"_ Gough had said, wringing his hands. That poor, innocent girl, full of love and life and cheeky mirth, brought low by his brother – a cruel, vindictive man who Gough couldn't quite give up on.

" _But he didn't,"_ Gilderoy had said. He'd been there, in the corner, doing his homework like a good little student – but listening, the whole time. His face had been blank. Emotionless.

A mask.

But he'd said it anyway.

Artorias had looked colder than he ever had before, a vision of stone and rage. But still, he'd kept his silence, directing one disappointed glare at his leader before storming off again.

It was another week before Quelaan had woken up. For her own safety, she'd chosen to drop out of Shade and return home to Izalith until she recovered. Professor June told her she was guaranteed a place in the school, whenever she felt ready to return.

"You have your thinking face on," said Gough, startling her from the memory. "What's going on?"

"Do you find the idea of me thinking odd?" she teased.

"Perhaps," Gough chuckled. "My question stands."

Ciaran mentally shrugged. _Why not?_ "Do you know if Artorias is going to the dance with anyone?"

Gough raised an eyebrow. "It's a bit early to be thinking about the dance."

"But do you know?"

"He's not shown interest in anyone."

Ciaran nodded. It would be easier to get Artorias and Gilderoy together if she wasn't pulling them away from anyone, but she could work around it anyway – if she knew who she was dealing with. But she still had to plan for Gilderoy as well…

"Oh, are you going with anyone Gil?" she asked.

"No," he said curtly. Ciaran nodded in understanding – Smough, of course, was back in Vacuo. Gilderoy was the easier target, then – he'd probably spend his time standing awkwardly in the corner with Gough.

"How about you, Ciaran?" asked Gough, an uncharacteristically cheeky smirk on his face. _What's going through that head of yours, big man?_ "Anyone take your fancy? You are going to leave the dorm for once, right?"

"I leave the dorm plenty, thank you very little. But… I don't really _know_ anyone."

"Sure you do," Gil said. Ciaran didn't miss how his eyes met Gough's, just for a moment. _What are you two up to?_

Gilderoy didn't elaborate.

 _Gilderoy's easy enough, when I ask him to do something he usually does it. Artorias is the hard one – maybe if I rant at him for a while?_

 _That rarely works. Right._

 _So maybe I just wait for Artorias to isolate himself,_ then _drag Gil over to him? No, that's leaving too much to chance._

 _Maybe I can just invoke a 'no-questions-asked' with Wolfy._

 _I've got time. I'll figure it out._

"Artorias Nym wins," Professor Goodwitch said, interrupting her train of thought. The wolf was helping his fallen opponent to his feet. Once they were both up, Artorias offered to shake hands, and the other man took up the offer.

"Mr Nym, I'll be sure to match you against more assertive opponents in the future."

"I'm offended, Professor," he said, his eyes widening in mock horror and his ears drooping to the sides, "I worked _hard_ for that victory." He grinned at his opponent, who responded by rolling his eyes.

Goodwitch just glared at him.

"I'll just… go then?"

"That would be best, Mr Nym. And Mr Tarkus, I understand that you act as a bulwark for your team, but it would be prudent to hone your offensive capabilities for one-on-one combat."

He nodded, and left the arena.

"I'm afraid we're out of time for today. Remember, it's important to put work in outside of class as well as in class. Don't slack off in your free time. Class dismissed."

"So, waddaya think?" Artorias said, sauntering over to his team.

"You have a massive ego," drawled Ciaran.

"Thanks C," Artorias said, bowing dramatically. "Any _actual_ criticism from the audience? Always looking to improve and all that." Ciaran rolled her eyes. He was just trying to provoke them.

Hopefully, Gil wouldn't take the bait.

Gough shook his head, smiling and started making his way to the exit. Gil gave Artorias one look, then said, "You still got the dust?"

"Yup." Artorias patted a pouch on his belt.

"Learn to use it."

"Ah! Dust! My one weakness," Artorias laughed, a grin on his face. "But I'll have you know, I'm an apt dust mage these days."

"Oh? How would you imbue your weapon with burn dust?"

Artorias frowned dramatically in thought, holding up a finger. "With my fist?" he guessed.

Gilderoy sighed, and turned to follow Gough.

"You know, criticism is overrated. I prefer your special brand of praise, Ciaran."

"It wasn't- you know, nevermind."

Artorias laughed again – he was certainly in good spirits, but he often was after sparring, especially when he won (which was often). He slung an arm around her, pulling her close to his side. "You're learning, C."

"Giving up isn't learning, Wolfy."

"In this case? Sure it is. Learning's usually your forte. What took you so long?"

"You're an ass, Wolfy," she said, but she smiled and wrapped an arm around him anyway.

/-/

"I've got very exciting news, everyone!"

Yang looked up from her lunch. Artorias was walking towards them, a lunch tray in one hand, the other arm wrapped around a girl in a blue robe and black armour with pale blonde hair. "Didn't take you for a kidnapper."

"If I were, I'd be doing the taking," he quipped. "Ciaran left the dorm!"

"You dragged me here from class," said the sorry soul.

"You let me."

She sighed, pried herself from Artorias' grip, and gave one, awkward wave. "Hi. I'm Ciaran."

"Well it's nice to meet you, Ciaran," said Ruby, through a mouthful of strawberries. She stuck her hand out. "I'm Ruby!"

Ciaran took her hand, and Ruby shook so vigorously that Yang was worried someone would get hurt.

"You're friendly," Ciaran observed, not in a mean-spirited way. A grin spread across Ruby's face.

A thought occurred to Yang, and she elbowed Artorias. "I'm Yang," she said, smirking, "the Beautiful Blonde Brawler."

Ciaran glared at her teammate. "You're a terrible influence, Wolfy."

"Thanks, C."

"And that's the Ice Queen," Yang said, pointing at Weiss.

"Hey!"

"Even Torchwick knows it, Weiss-cream. Don't fight it. And our last team member is… conspicuously absent." Yang looked to her right, where Blake usually sat. If Yang had to guess, the faunus girl was at the library again, searching restlessly for information on the White Fang's recent movements.

Artorias sat, plonking his lunch down in front of him. Yang eyed the yellow mass curiously.

"Is that mustard?" Ruby asked.

"With steak," Ciaran corrected, letting out a long-suffering sigh. She sat down as well, and began picking at her decidedly mustardless food.

"I don't see any steak," Yang pointed out.

"It's under there," he claimed, delicately consuming a forkful of the stuff. Yang supposed there _must_ have been some steak on it somewhere, else the mustard would have just dripped off.

"I'd hardly count that as a meal," Weiss said.

"Steak and mustard go together," he said.

"Steak with mustard on the side, perhaps," Yang said. "I'm still not entirely convinced the steak exists."

He drew his plate closer to him protectively.

"It hasn't killed him yet," Ciaran shrugged.

"And it never will," he claimed, with a smug smile. Yang considered it a marvel that his eyes weren't watering from the heat. "So. Blake. She still hung up on the White Fang thing?"

"Obviously," said Weiss, averting her eyes from Artorias' meal. "It's not good for her. She's working herself to death."

"Yeah, I mean, we said we'd help her out and all, but that's not an excuse to just keep going crazy, you know?" Ruby said.

"And we've made some progress," said Yang. "I mean, you were there, Wolfy, hounding that giant robot? And we got the Yarrow lead, and that thing about the hideout in the south-east."

"And the SDC records singled out Vale as the primary target for dust robberies," said Weiss.

"Oh, so you weren't just flirting with Neptune?" Artorias smirked, leaning his elbows on the table and cupping his chin, adopting a mockingly dreamy look. The vision was ruined somewhat by his chewing – he'd just put another forkful in his mouth. "I want to hear _all_ about it," he said. Yang snickered at his antics as Ciaran punched him lightly on the arm.

Artorias suddenly sat ramrod straight, his eyebrows shooting into his hairline. "Nose-rush!" he cried, his mouth forming a small 'o' has his breathing turned heavy.

"Serves you right," Ciaran said.

"Suddenly I'm glad that you're only obsessed with strawberries and cookies," Weiss drawled, looking pointedly at Ruby.

"And milk!" Ruby reminded her.

Artorias slammed his hand onto the table, scrunched his eyes shut, then seemed to recover, letting out a sigh of relief. "Gods, it felt like my brain was on fire." He pointed an accusing look at Ciaran, who turned his nose up at him, smirking slightly.

"Told you so."

"Didn't kill me." He cracked his neck. "Right. Where were we?"

"Neptune," Yang reminded him. "Details, Weiss-cream. Details."

"I'm not sure it's worth dignifying you with a response," Weiss said, crossing her arms. "Especially you," she said, in a pointed comment to the wolf. Artorias shrugged as if to say, _fair enough._

"Is that why you got rid of me?" Ruby wondered.

"You walked off all by yourself, thank you very much," Weiss said. "And how _is_ Penny, anyway?"

"Wait, you saw Penny?" Yang asked.

"Who's Penny?" Ciaran asked.

"Ha, heh, ah, she's just a friend," Ruby explained. "Uh, she's fine, yeah. She's fine."

"What happened to her after the docks?" Yang asked.

"Um, she went home. To sleep. Yeah." _Very convincing, Rubes._

"I'll take your word for it, then," Artorias said, though his narrowed eyes betrayed that he too was suspicious. "Oh, so Ciaran, the other member of Team Ruby, Blake – she likes to read. I reckon you'd get along, if she wasn't being all weird right now."

"Oh?" Ciaran asked, perking up. "What does she read?"

Yang found herself grinning wildly. "Literature," said Yang. "You know, like capital 'L' Literature, very stimulating… mentally, of course. She gets _really_ into her books _._ "

Ciaran nodded. "Not bad. I recently read _Foe_ by-"

"Ah, mm, nope," Yang cut in. "We're not really the bookworm types, but if you ever run into Blake, you should _definitely_ ask her what she's read recently."

"I'll keep it in mind."

"So, Weiss…" said Jaune – where he'd come from, Yang wasn't sure. It was as though the blond boy had just… appeared. From thin air. "There's a new restaurant opening in Vale on Thursday. Thought, maybe, you know, you might want to…"

"No."

"Well, I never saw _that_ coming," Artorias said, smirking.

"There's no need to be rude," said Pyrrha with a frown, as she caught up to her leader.

"No, no, I'm serious – I really expected it to work that time."

Pyrrha's brow furrowed, and she moved closer to Jaune protectively. Jaune ignored her. Yang rolled her eyes. _Stupid blond idiot._

"I mean, he's not wrong," Jaune said. He took a seat, either shrugging off his latest rejection with practiced ease, or hiding his despair beneath a cheery demeanour. Yang knew that the boy wore his heart on his sleeve, yet for some reason she felt it was the second.

"I'm not?" Artorias queried. Everyone ignored him.

Ciaran looked curiously at Team Juniper. "So… hi?"

"Oh, right, how very _rude_ of you, Wolfy, not even introducing your own teammate," Yang said, winking at Pyrrha. A small smile crossed her face. "Jaune, Pyrrha, this is Ciaran. Ciaran – eh, you get it."

Jaune stirred. "The name's Jaune Arc," he said. "Short-"

"Jaune, no," Yang said, cutting him off.

"Doesn't he still need that? I mean, it's like you said – what else does he have?" Artorias peered at Jaune curiously.

"He's slowly learning to handle rejection," said Weiss dryly. "I suppose he's got that going for him."

"You know what they say, practice makes perfect, Snow Angel," Jaune said leaning towards her. "And I'm also getting a lot of practice asking you out."

Weiss regarded him with a deadpan, then looked away, pretending he wasn't even there. Jaune shrugged again, seemingly unphased.

"That's odd," Artorias said, looking at his scroll. "Ozpin wants me in his office."

"Detention?" Ciaran asked, raising a mocking eyebrow.

"Maybe, but I'm pretty sure nobody's given me a detention yet. Then again, I might have been sleeping when they gave it to me. I dunno – hey, has he called any of you guys? Might be a debriefing for the robot thing."

"Nope," said Ruby. Yang and Weiss nodded in agreement with her. "And that was days ago, anyway. Weird."

"Yeah. Weird," Artorias mused. "I guess I'd better be off then. You cool?"

"Hot, actually," Yang said, ignoring the rolling eyes of her teammates. Artorias snorted.

"Always fear the flame, Yang," he said. She tilted her head in confusion, but his smile took on a wistful quality, as though he were enjoying a private joke. He gave Pyrrha and Jaune a mock salute. "Ladykiller, Fun Police," he acknowledged, then he turned on his heel and walked away.

"You two get along like a house on fire," Ciaran observed.

"He's fun," said Yang, shrugging.

"He's insulting," Pyrrha said quietly, but then her eyes flickered to Ciaran. "Sorry, I don't mean to-"

"It's fine," she assured the champion. "He's… an acquired taste."

"And he has rather odd tastes himself," Weiss said, peering once again at his unfinished 'meal'. Yang looked over too – indeed, she could now make out the vague outline of a steak, slathered as it was in the yellow condiment.

Idly, she wondered whether it was some sort of semblance, to be able to eat that much mustard without throwing up.

"What do you think, Vomitboy?" Yang asked.

"I mean – I don't _not_ like him. He's-"

"I meant the mustard," she deadpanned. "How about it? Maybe we could get a reenactment of the famous barf! Just… not on my shoes this time."

"I'll pass."

"Well, I like him," Ruby chimed in. "He's… brave. I don't mean like, fighting, but he seems alright at that too – but he always seems to say what he thinks, you know? And his weapons are cool – I mean, a bit simple, but still cool, so that's good too."

"Oh really?" Ciaran said. "I might have to one-up him, then. Gough tells me you're an expert on weaponry."

Ruby blushed and stammered something incomprehensible.

"Here we go," Yang sighed.

/-/

"If you don't mind me asking – why do you want Nym in particular?"

Professor Ozpin looked out the observation window, towards the city. For a while he said nothing, and Ironwood was left only with the inexorable sound of gears quietly pushing against each other.

"Oz?"

If the older man had been startled, he did not show it, turning to him calmly. "Mr Nym is rather apt at investigation, per your own report. Is there an issue?"

"No," Ironwood said, "I just find it odd. He's still just a student."

"Students go on missions regularly. This is hardly different."

"Oz-"

"For Mr Nym, at least, it won't be too jarring. Vacuo handles things differently."

"He has personal ties. It could compromise the mission."

Ozpin polished his glasses. "I see you've done some more digging."

"I thought it prudent," he said. Artorias' relationship with Miss Acribus hadn't been on the report given to Ozpin, as they weren't yet an item at the time the report was commissioned.

Ozpin nodded. "Mr Nym may have some insight that Specialist Schnee will not. He may have even known Anastacia. Tell me – have you investigated Mr Ornstein as well?"

Ironwood, grimaced, then nodded. "If you want a written report, I'm afraid there isn't one. Not yet, at any rate." And it wouldn't have many details, anyway. He hadn't dug up much on Team Gwyn's leader.

"That's fine, but thank you for offering."

Ironwood narrowed his eyes. Ozpin was searching for _something_ from Team Gwyn, but he wasn't sure what. It was clear he'd taken an interest in Artorias Nym especially – after all, he wasn't sending the rest of his team on the mission. But in regards to Ornstein, Ozpin either didn't expect Ironwood to help him – or he didn't want him to.

Beacon's headmaster was a secretive man indeed, not that Ironwood didn't already know that.

There was a _ding_ from the elevator.

"Come in," said Professor Ozpin.

Artorias stepped into the office, taking a brief glance around the room. His eyes met Ironwood's, for just a second, before settling on Ozpin.

"No offense, Professor, but I prefer June's office."

"None taken," said Ozpin, engaging in the small talk. He sat in his chair, and gestured for Artorias to sit too.

"You've made a name for yourself, Mr Nym," said Ozpin.

"Is that a good or a bad thing?" Artorias asked.

"Good, for the most part," said Ozpin, "though I hear you're a bit of a troublemaker at Shade."

"At the risk of sounding like a child – Smough usually started it."

"Quite. Coffee?" Ozpin offered.

"I'm fine thanks."

"Have you been in contact with Mr Iris since his departure from Shade?" asked Ironwood. Smough Iris could be useful - he seemed to be the closest thing to an authority on Ornstein. And, even if Ozpin apparently didn't care for his assistance on the matter, Ironwood had taken his own interest.

Gilderoy Ornstein sounded not unlike a young James Ironwood.

"I certainly hope I haven't," Artorias quipped.

"I'll take that as a no, then," said Ironwood.

Artorias nodded. "Gil has though. They're dating, gods know why."

"I suppose such things aren't always logical," Ozpin said.

"That's one way of putting it," Artorias laughed. "Smough's a racist git. Gil – well, he's not so bad."

Ironwood nodded, more to himself than to the student. "If you don't mind me asking, how is Mr Ornstein?"

"He's alive," Artorias said simply. "You know him?"

"Not personally," Ironwood said, though he offered the student no further explanation.

Artorias shrugged. "I don't think I could tell you much more than whatever your file says."

Ironwood frowned. "We don't have a file on Mr Ornstein."

Artorias raised an eyebrow. "Is that the truth, or is it classified?"

"Both."

Artorias' smile grew, and he looked down and to the side briefly before his gaze returned to Ozpin. "I don't suppose I'm here just to talk about my team leader and his ass of a boyfriend?"

Ozpin reclined slightly in his chair. "That would be rather pointless, I agree. Mr Nym, I want you to know that what we're about to tell you is… sensitive. It's caused quite the panic in Vacuo, and we'd rather not see the same happen in Vale." He sipped at his coffee. "It would be best if you could keep the details to yourself."

Artorias' face fell. "What happened?"

Ozpin sighed, removed his glasses, massaged the bridge of his nose, then replaced his spectacles. "Izalith was destroyed by the creatures of Grimm," he said.

"Is Quelaan alright?"

"She is safe," said Ozpin.

Artorias let out a sigh of relief. "Thank the gods."

"Thank her team," said Ozpin. "They were visiting her when the attack began. They saved many lives in the evacuation."

Artorias' brow furrowed. "I don't- Izalith was so quiet. There hadn't been any Grimm activity there in years. I don't understand."

Ozpin looked to Ironwood. It was his turn.

"It was highly unexpected," said the general. "But there are some alarming details. There are rumours among the survivors that the Grimm were being led by a human."

"What?"

"It's unlikely, I agree, but the rumour has spread rather quickly in Vacuo. I'm sending Specialist Schnee to investigate the claims; Professor Ozpin requested that you join her."

"You know," Artorias said, addressing Professor Ozpin, "Winter wouldn't be happy at the suggestion she can't handle it on her own." Ironwood drew a deep breath, then nodded reluctantly – he wasn't wrong, though Winter was a professional and wouldn't take it out on him, at least.

"Perhaps. But I want you there anyway," said Ozpin.

"Might I ask why?" That was a question Ironwood wanted a proper answer to as well.

The corner of Ozpin's mouth turned upwards. "You are familiar with Izalith. You may find something Specialist Schnee would miss."

"Winter doesn't miss much."

"I also trust you. When you return, you will give me your full report. Directly." Ironwood narrowed his eyes. Ozpin was rarely so blunt – but at least it explained why he wanted someone to go with Winter. He wanted a direct line of communication.

Artorias raised an eyebrow. "Trust? Professor, this is the first time we've ever spoken."

"I trust Professor June more than anybody on Remnant. She vouches for you. Certainly, there are people I trust more than you – no offence, of course – but those people are somewhat conspicuous, or otherwise indisposed."

Artorias nodded slowly, accepting the answer. "So. Any specifics I should know?"

"We lack the specifics ourselves," said Ironwood. "For now, that serves our purpose – you and Specialist Schnee will get information straight from the source. As for who that source is, the only Hunter team we know to be present was Team Kitetail."

Ozpin glanced at Ironwood out of the corner of his eye, then his eyes settled again on Artorias, his face adopting a stern, grave expression. "There's something else," he said. "Anastacia Sil. We must know what happened to her."

Ironwood's eyes widened, and he glanced sidelong at Ozpin, pursing his lips. Ozpin had seemed none too pleased that Ironwood had entrusted that name to Winter. That he was handing it off to someone he trusted only by proxy caught Ironwood off guard.

"Ana mentioned her once," Artorias mused. At first glance, he seemed deep in thought, but his eyes were fixed on Ironwood, a gleam of wit hidden within. He hadn't missed the general's surprise. "Oh, Ana for Quelana, not Ana for Anastacia, by the way – it'd be pretty hard for Anastacia to mention anything. She's the mute, right?" Ozpin nodded. "I get the whole 'Hunters save lives' thing, but why her in particular?"

"Classified," Ironwood cut in before Ozpin could speak. It was _highly_ classified, in fact.

"Identifying the human amongst the Grimm takes priority, of course," Ozpin said, "but do not forget her."

Artorias nodded. "What do I tell my team?"

"You may inform them that Izalith has fallen, and that you've been exempted from classes to ensure that your friends are safe. Beyond that, please remain silent," Ozpin said. "And ask them to do the same. There's a flight leaving for Vacuo tomorrow morning. We'll organise a ticket for you. Are there any further questions?"

Artorias shook his head.

"Good luck, Mr Nym," Ozpin said, gesturing to the elevator.

Artorias nodded. The room fell silent for a time after the elevator began its descent. Ironwood gathered his thoughts.

"Ozpin-"

"Trust me, James," said Ozpin. "Is this not what you wanted? For us to take a more… active role. I am merely choosing an actor."

"Is that what this is? You want to recruit him?"

He pursed his lips. "June does, but she's deferred the final decision to me. I've yet to make up my mind."

"Yet you told him about the Summer Maiden?"

"She has a name," Ozpin said quietly. He shook himself, as though out of a trance. "You did much the same with Miss Schnee."

"She needs to know who to look for."

"As does Mr Nym. But I was made aware of Miss Schnee's role in the investigation rather late," Ozpin accused. Ironwood averted his eyes – he'd sent word to Winter the moment he'd heard Izalith had fallen, and hadn't discussed it with Ozpin.

"Ideally, I'd have sent Mr Nym alone," he continued. "I suppose it's a good thing you picked Miss Schnee for the mission. They've worked well together in the past."

"I trust her. She's one of my best."

"And he is June's." _What makes him trust June so much more than me?_ "It matters little. We'll have our answers soon enough."

* * *

 **Tarkus is strong, but he's got a way to go before he becomes the Golem-destroying hero we know and love.**

 **I tell you what, picking names that suit the character, sound good, and abide by the colour-name rule can be a pain in the ass. Eygon, Kirk, and Havel pretty much gave me surnames on a silver platter, but the Daughters of Izalith have had their last name changed three times. First it was 'Ember', then 'Maledictis', now 'Acribus'.** **I'd have stuck with Ember, but there's already an Octavia Ember at Shade in canon. God damn minor characters.**

 **Eingyi's surname has been changed twice, just so the team name kinda fits the colour rule. Why he's even a character, I don't know. It just sorta... happened. But I needed a full team, and he fit the bill.**

 **The surname 'Sil' fits nicely. Some of the reasons why should be obvious. Others not so much. But god, it sounds so stupid. Sil. Ugh.** **I'm committing to it anyway.**

 **The name I'm happiest with (even though it's not _that_ good, really) hasn't been dropped yet, so I won't say it. But I will say I'm also rather fond of Arthur Quill's name.**

 **I won't make any promises that I'll have the next chapter out on time next week, as I've got a pile of assessment due that day, but it'll definitely be out on Saturday if I can't make Friday.**

 **Next chapter - April 7th or April 8th.**


	8. Chapter 7: Auld

**Despite having four assignments due today, I wrote three thousand words of dialogue for a character who won't show up for a very long time, the longest chapter so far, and a new _Dark Souls_ experimental piece. Such are the benefits of procrastination.**

* * *

Artorias stepped off the airship and was immediately greeted by a wave of comforting warmth. Some found the desert heat too harsh for their liking. Artorias didn't mind it.

Unlike Vale, the city's airship docks were synonymous with the academy's airship docks. Shade had originally been built away from the city after the Great War, but when the government was dissolved half a decade later, the city came to grow around the academy, and the old docks were abandoned in favour of extending Shade's.

But calling the area around the academy a 'city' was a bit of a stretch. Shade, of course, had its fair share of permanent buildings, but the area immediately surrounding the academy was comprised largely of tents, caravans, and other makeshift living quarters. Heading west from the academy lead to the city proper, where actual houses and shops and roads were common.

Even further west, beyond Vacuo (the city, not the kingdom), lay the ruins of Old Oasis. What the ancient city had once been called was long lost to time, but it was built around what had once been a lush oasis – and so, in the modern era, had been named as such. Sunlight Academy, the only preliminary combat school in Vacuo, sat in the ruined city's centre. Below Old Oasis lay the dust quarry, still rich with resources even after centuries upon centuries of mining.

Just because Old Oasis was a ruin didn't mean that it was abandoned. People still gathered there – mostly miners, or those attending Sunlight. It was also a popular spot for people to hide, which, ironically, made it June's first port-of-call to find troublemakers.

"You're back."

He knew that voice – feminine, dainty, quiet, and if she spoke more he'd identify just the slightest hint of a lisp, the result of her faunus heritage.

Artorias, following the voice, looked to his left. A slightly woman stood there, her face concealed within black robes trimmed with gold.

"Apparently so," he said.

Artorias could just about make out Quelana's smile beneath her hood. "Is Vale really that boring?" she asked.

"Eh, it's alright."

"That doesn't tell me much," she said.

"Livelier than I remember," he said.

She tilted her head. "You've not gotten into trouble already, have you?"

"Day one," he said. "White Fang and friends – actually a nice change of pace, after someone let go of Smough's chain."

"I think Smough let go of his own chain, if he ever had one," she remarked.

"Might have been Gil, actually," he mused. "Gods only know what those two get up to…"

Quelana stepped closer to punch him lightly on the arm. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were jealous."

"Jealous? Of Smough or Gilderoy?"

"Hmm…" she tapped her chin in thought. "Definitely Gilderoy."

He looked skyward, laughing softly at the thought. "You caught me," he said, before letting out a long, drawn-out sigh. Gods, he hadn't even realised how much he'd missed her until he'd seen her again.

"Quelaan's missed you. Quelaag says she's following in your footsteps."

"Oh?"

"She didn't offer any specifics. Said it was all very hush. I can only imagine she's been getting herself in an awful amount of trouble."

"And that's following in my footsteps? I don't know what you're talking about."

Beneath her hood, Artorias saw green eyes glimmering in the darkness, and for a moment he lost himself to a quiet afternoon in Izalith.

"I thought you two broke up." It was a gruff voice that spoke this time, deep, gravelly. Artorias was snapped out of his trance, looking to the newcomer.

"How's the team, Rocky?"

"Small," said the man. Despite only being a year older than them, Havel Rockwell appeared much, much older – he had a worn and grizzled face with a rugged, thick white beard. Havel was notoriously strong, with armour carved entirely from granite, wielding the fang of a King Taijitu as his weapon.

The Grimm it had been taken from must have been ginormous.

"I heard you were upset with me."

Havel shrugged. "It's mostly Leeroy. He and Egg are still miffed we didn't qualify." He scoffed at the thought. "Need to get over themselves, really."

"And you?"

"We didn't qualify," he said, stating it as a fact. "It is what it is. Leeroy's pissed at Smough, Egg's pissed at you, then they're all pissed at everyone and I have to be pissed too, least a bit. No hard feelings, Wolf. Just sticking up for my team."

Artorias nodded. "I always knew you weren't an ass."

"Don't push it. June sent me down to send you up. She's not the most patient woman."

"She hasn't gotten a new assistant already, has she?"

"You weren't her assistant. You were her pet, at most."

"And you're not?" Quelana challenged.

Havel let out a short bark of laughter, but didn't deny it. Quelana's eyes narrowed, and she spun to face Artorias again.

"You've been back ten minutes and you've already got detention?" Quelana accused, her forked tongue hissing against her teeth. But there was a scathing mirth in her eyes that he recognised – she was messing with him.

"I'm just that good," Artorias grinned goofily. "Give Smough my _very_ best, if you see him."

A toothy smile appeared on Havel's face. "I'm sure he'll appreciate it. Don't keep her waiting, or I won't hear the end of it."

Artorias nodded, and Havel turned, walking towards the dorm block. Artorias looked to Quelana. "We'll talk later, yeah?"

"Of course," she said. "I'll be in town. You've heard, right? That's why you're back?"

"Izalith, yeah," he said. "I'm sorry."

She sighed. "So am I. I've been working to settle in the refugees."

"I'll go see June and your sisters, but I'll head into town when I'm done, alright?"

She nodded. "Good. I'll see you then."

/-/

"It's done, then?"

Smough nodded, tossing a pouch onto his employer's desk. The man opened it a little, and looked within.

"Smaller than I thought."

"It's the one," Smough growled. He'd been contracted to take down a Deathstalker in the dust quarry – but his employer offered a bonus to have the stinger delivered intact, to extract the venom. For Smough, that wasn't an easy condition. He'd had to detach the stinger before killing the Deathstalker, so it wouldn't disintegrate. Given that he didn't have any cutting weapons, that had been something of a challenge. But it hadn't been too large a Deathstalker, so he'd been able to fling it into a wall with his hammer until it had landed on its back. Then it had just been a matter of tearing the stinger loose with his bare hands and putting it out of its misery.

"I just want my money," he said.

His employer nodded and slid some lien over the desk. Smough counted it before pocketing it – it was the right amount.

He knew it wouldn't be easy to find work without proper Hunter credentials. Mission boards were closed off to him – if he wanted work, he had to find a contractor in person.

For a few weeks after his expulsion, he'd considered travelling to Mistral, where there were frontier towns aplenty. People there were willing to trade more than just money for work – food and board came to mind. He could probably establish himself quite nicely as the local protector of one, maybe two towns close to each other. People would look up to him. They wouldn't care that he hadn't graduated, if he did his job. He'd be able to put Shade, Vacuo – the high and mighty Hunters, he'd be able to put them all behind him.

"I'll contact you if I have further work," said his employer, "but don't count on it. Not like I go looking for Grimm." He waved his hand in dismissal.

Smough left the building, shading his eyes with one hand. It was a little past midday, and the sun was blinding – especially since he'd spent most of the day underground.

His scroll buzzed in his pocket. He looked at the number – he didn't recognise it.

"Smough Iris speaking."

" _It's Ciaran White."_

Smough paused, an ugly grimace crossing his features. "What do you want?"

" _Artorias is in Vacuo."_

"Good for him," Smough snorted. "Why should I care?"

" _I want you to talk to him. He and Gil-"_

"I'm going to stop you right there. I don't care," said Smough.

" _Look – I know you don't get along, but this is for Gilderoy. You care about him, don't you?"_

Smough sighed. "Yes."

" _Like it or not, Artorias and Gil are friends, and you're the wedge between them."_

"I'm the wedge between them? Nym is the wedge between us."

" _I don't care how you see it."_

"That's rich."

" _I don't like you. You don't like me. But we both care about Gil, right? If you and Art put aside-"_

Smough hung up on her.

His scroll buzzed again. He answered it.

"Who is it?"

" _I have just one question for you: are you ready?"_

"For what? Who is this?"

" _Are you ready for this weekend when Vacuo Underground Tournament champion John Beana defends his title-"_

Smough hung up again, pinching the bridge of his nose. For quite a while, he'd been getting incessant calls from telemarketers – though he'd thought they'd stopped of late. It had been almost a week since the last one.

"Idiots," muttered.

/-/

Like Ozpin's, June's office was at the top of the academy's CCT tower. Unlike Ozpin, June's office was a cluttered mess. In lieu of a desk chair, she had a comfortable couch, and instead of a desk she had a coffee table strewn with papers, files, and occasionally her scroll. The walls were a warm, inviting red, and were covered in paintings, and with shelves full of antiques. The carpet was soft to touch, the colour of cream. June didn't like people treading dirt through it, and so Artorias had removed his boots in the elevator on the way up.

Idly, he wondered if Ironwood had ever been forced to go barefoot. He snickered at the thought.

Professor June herself appeared only to be in her late twenties, or perhaps early thirties, with a head of auburn hair and piercing golden eyes. Artorias had at first been surprised by her age, given her prestigious position, but she had a hidden wisdom beyond her years.

She just didn't show it very often, at least to her students.

"So, Artorias – what did he do this time?" she said, looking over the top of her scroll at him, her eyes glimmering with mirth.

"We're not doing this again, are we?"

"Indulge me," she said.

Artorias sighed, then slipped into a caricature of himself, shifting his weight to his left hip and gesturing wildly with his right hand. "I swear, Professor," he said, "I was just training and he ran into my fist! I didn't mean it!"

She smiled, and threw her head back in laughter. "Been a while," she said, leaping to her feet and walking over to him. "I should have just kept giving you detentions, you know. Just for fun."

"Or you could have just invited me up," he said.

" _Lame_." She threw an arm around him and gathered him into a short, fierce hug. "Miss Schnee should be up in just a moment, then we can get down to business. So – how's Beacon? Any detentions yet?"

"Everyone just assumes…" he grumbled. "I've stayed out of – ah, well, I've avoided detention, for sure." And he'd rather keep it that way. He could probably survive detention with Oobleck, but not Port.

Never Port.

"Trouble? Do tell," she said. "I heard about the docks. Anything else?"

"Giant robot," he said simply.

"Should I blame Ironwood?"

"I'd rather you didn't." Artorias turned to the voice. A woman in Atlas military uniform (but, to Artorias' amusement, without shoes) stepped out of the elevator, one eyebrow raised. "Weiss tells me you were defeated quite soundly by a little girl," said Winter. Out of the corner of his eye, Artorias saw June raise an eyebrow of her own.

"Pfft. Exaggeration," Artorias said, waving a hand loosely. "And in my defence, she fought with a parasol."

"I don't see how that's in your favour."

"Anyone who fights with a parasol is automatically about ten times more badass."

"Perhaps you should try it then," she said with a vicious smile. "I think you could use the boost."

Artorias opened his mouth to speak, then paused, holding up a finger as he thought it through. "I'll be sure to give it a go," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

June stepped in. "You've both been briefed, correct?"

Artorias nodded, as did Winter.

"I understand you're going to be questioning Team Kitetail. Try not to turn it into too much of an interrogation," she said. Artorias, not for the first time, found himself impressed by the sudden shift from June, laidback mentor, to Professor June, Headmistress of Shade.

Winter nodded. "How much have they told you, Professor?"

"I've been occupied by the civilian refugees. I've talked with them, but they've only given me a brief explanation. And I suppose you'd want to hear it all straight from the source anyway."

"Of course. You're acquainted with them, correct?" Winter asked, addressing Artorias.

"Yup."

"I'll let you lead the debriefing, then. Is there anything else, Professor?"

June shook her head. "That's all. Good luck."

Artorias followed Winter to the elevator, waving over his shoulder to June as he left. She returned the gesture as the doors shut.

"I suppose I should apologise properly," Winter said, as the elevator began its descent.

"For what?"

"For my advice."

"Oh, you're one of those 'it's not a proper apology unless it's in person' people?" Artorias snorted.

"It's common courtesy."

"Don't worry about it. It's in the past," he waved it off. "You helped, just… differently."

"Of course," she said. "And I hear you got together with someone else?"

"You heard it from me," he said, rolling his eyes. "Being formal is all well and good, but seriously? That's just pretentious."

"The point stands."

"Yeah, Quelana and I were an item. We broke up just before the Festival."

"Oh." She looked down, composing herself, then back up, her face an image of polite, but sincere sympathy. "I'm sorry."

"We're on good terms. It's fine."

Their breakup had been a mutual agreement. They'd gotten in one of those deep and meaningful discussions about the future – the 'where do you see us in five years' kinda thing.

Artorias had joked about how Hunters didn't usually live very long, and how he could easily see himself in a ditch somewhere.

She'd laughed pleasantly, then berated him, worried his cynicism would rub off on her younger sisters.

But when they'd really talked, they'd found themselves at a disagreement. After a few years of work, Quelana planned on settling down in some calm backwater like Izalith, or like Patch, where she could still protect people, but live a mostly quiet life. He'd never considered that option – and when she'd brought it up, he'd decided he didn't want it. He wanted to live from day to day, travelling between towns in the middle of nowhere, where people weren't always sure they'd live to see the next dawn.

He didn't want to know what tomorrow would bring.

She'd said he might be right about the 'dead in a ditch' thing. And she hadn't been able to change his mind, and he hadn't even wanted to change hers, and so they'd decided to break up. They were on good terms, or at least he thought they were, but it had still hurt. Heading to Vale had been a good distraction.

Seeing her again had brought it back fresh.

Winter broke the silence. "I can't say I'm terribly familiar with Team Kitetail."

The elevator opened, and the two stepped out, the wolf taking the lead, heading towards the dormitories. "You didn't read the report?"

"We don't have reports on _everybody,_ Artorias."

Artorias winked and tapped the side of his nose. "Classified, of course," he joked. "Team Q-Q-T-L. Quelaag and Quelaan Acribus, Kirk Thorn, and Eingyi Labern. Quelaan dropped out around the start of the year to recover from an injury, so _technically_ she's not on the team anymore. She and her twin sister are spider faunus. Trust me, you'll see."

"Any relation to Quelana?"

"She's their older sister," he explained, as they reached the dormitory block.

Shade was laid out much the same as Beacon – all the academies were built around the same time, and designed by the same people, after all. But they'd drawn on each kingdom's nearby natural resources to do it – the CCT tower was built using long-lasting, imported materials from across the world, but the other buildings were made from locally sourced sandstone. The walls had a ruddy orange hue to them that Beacon lacked.

Artorias preferred it. It felt homely.

"Eingyi's kinda annoying. Pretty sure he's got a crush on Quelaan, actually. He's _really_ clingy. Kirk's alright though. He's a bit vulgar, sure, but I like him."

She nodded. "Did you ever meet… did Ozpin tell you?"

"Anastacia? Yeah. Ana – and I mean Quelana, not Anastacia, mind you – pointed her out once, but we never actually spoke. I mean, she can't, but I mean we never properly met or anything. Anyway, aside from the mute thing, there didn't seem to be anything odd about her. Oh, this is their room." He knocked on Team Kitetail's door.

"It's open, come in," came the faint voice.

He pushed the door open. The room had only one occupant – Quelaan. In her own unique way, she was lying down. Conventional chairs and beds weren't made for half-spiders, after all, so instead she rested the spider half of her body on the ground, splaying her legs around her, and instead of a bed she had a desk with a pillow on it, at the perfect height to lean on.

As someone who slept in class regularly, Artorias knew very well the comfort of a desk.

"Oh, hey Art," Quelaan croaked tiredly. _Was she injured? June didn't mention anything._

Artorias rushed to her side. "Were you hurt? You alright?"

He threw an arm around her, squeezing her arm through her pale green shirt in a gesture of comfort."

"It's not good," she said quietly. "Took a nasty hit in the battle, reopened a-"

"She's fine."

Artorias looked up. Winter stood awkwardly in the corner as Quelaag, the other spider twin, made her way into the dorm, slumping down next to her own pillow-desk-bed-thing.

A man with messy dark hair and slanted eyes followed behind her.

"Sorry," he said to Quelaan. "Tried to stop her. You're no fun today, Quelaag."

"I'd hardly call that trying," Quelaag said dryly.

"Bet I had you scared for a second though, huh?" Quelaan laughed, pushing Artorias away. He stumbled, not expecting the force.

"You're a regular girl who cried wolf, Quelaan."

"Sorry for intruding," Winter said. "I'm Winter." If she was shocked at the faunus' appearances, it didn't show.

"Wolfy mentioned you. You were on the Fang thing at the last tournament, right? I'm Quelaan, that's my boring sister Quelaag, and this idiot's Kirk," Quelaan said. Winter raised an eyebrow to the wolf.

He shrugged. He'd spent time with the twins when Quelana had brought him to Izalith, and he'd bonded with them. He liked to think that they saw him as a mentor, full of interesting stories and sage advice.

Not a lame mentor, though. A cool mentor. Like June in a good mood.

"Where's Eingyi?" he asked.

"He was getting overbearing," Quelaan said. "We sent him on a little… errand."

"Anything good?"

Quelaan looked to her sister questioningly. Quelaag sighed. "Nothing too amusing. I told him to ask Professor Brim if we could do anything for extra credit."

"Ouch," said Artorias. Logan Brim could either be scathingly curt or frustratingly long-winded, depending on the topic.

"So, Wolfy," Quelaan said. "Why're you back? And why is Winter here? Not that you're not welcome or anything. Just curious."

"Well," said Artorias. "We've heard some odd stories about Izalith. Ozpin gave me leave from class to check you were alright."

"And how many of those odd stories are true, I suppose?" said Quelaag.

"Indeed," said Winter.

Quelaan grinned evilly. "I'm sure Eingyi'd be _happy_ to chew your ear off, Wolfy. I could call-"

"Whatever you three can tell us is fine, thanks," he said hurriedly, glancing at Winter in a silent message to agree. She nodded uncertainly.

Kirk made his way over to the room's lone desk, grabbing a chair and spinning it around to sit. "Story time with Kirk, then," he said. "Gather round, children."

Artorias showed him his middle finger, but moved over to sit on one of the beds. Winter stood in the corner, arms clasped behind her back.

"Right, so the attack-"

"Not going to start with a more traditional opening? I hear 'once upon a time' is very popular these days," Quelaan cut in, smirking.

"Shut it. Once upon a time – happy, now? Once upon a time, there was a town called Izalith, and it was a pretty cool place. Then, one day, at sort-of-ish noon, a bunch of Grimm attacked. We were at the girls' place, then we hear the alarm bell going crazy. So, we all rush outside, Grimm are coming down in droves from the north, it looked pretty shit. Quelaan calls for evac ships from Shade, then we all go to establish a safe zone around the main square."

"You forgot the part where the Howlers came around the corner and you screamed like a little girl," Quelaan teased.

"That was Eingyi."

"If you say so."

Kirk's face grew darker. "It got pretty bad for a while there. Lautrec and I left to look for survivors. Everyone else held the square to wait for evac."

"Lautrec?" Artorias asked.

"The huntsman you and Quelana beat up," Quelaag reminded him.

"That was the day we got drunk, right? Like, _super_ -drunk."

"It was the day you got drunk," she confirmed, looking thoroughly amused.

"Eh, he had it coming to him," Artorias dismissed, not entirely untruthfully. They'd overreacted, perhaps, but creepy-huntsman-Lautrec wasn't the nicest fellow.

"Sounds interesting," Winter smirked, leaning in. "What happened?"

"Bit of a non-story, really – hell, I couldn't even remember his name. He was just the creepy huntsman guy to me. We got drunk, he hit on Ana, she beat him up, I helped, we drank some more. End of story."

"And big sis swore off drinking the next morning," Quelaan quipped.

"Didn't last long."

"Creepy or not, he was good at his job," Kirk cut them off. "Beat the hell outta the Grimm. We got a few people out of some tight spots and pointed them towards the evac point – then we ran into this weird knight guy _._ There he was, kneeling on the side of the road, Grimm all around him. Weren't attacking him or anything, just sniffing about, keeping watch or whatever. When they saw us, they went crazy, but I mean, I'm a total badass-"

"You screamed, Kirk."

"I'm a total badass," he repeated, scowling at Quelaan, "and Lautrec's pretty good too, so the Grimm were easy enough. The weird guy, though?" Kirk shook his head.

"What did he look like? How did he fight?" Winter asked.

"He was in full armour; a helmet too, we couldn't see his face. Black armour, pretty old, worn down, heavy – but it looked like it was some quality shit, before it got old. I'd say he was a little taller than you, Artorias. He fought with a sword in his right hand." Kirk pulled out his own sword, covered in wicked barbs. "A little longer than this – less spiky, of course. And with a bigger crossguard. Didn't look like it had any mechanical parts to it, but I was – ah, well, fine, I was kinda pants-pissing scared, so I might have missed something. Besides, I was looking at his other weapon. Not an innuendo, by the way." He shuddered.

"I'd call it a sword, but it was _huge._ Like, _really fucking big_. Probably longer than he was tall. The blade wasn't sharp – it was jagged, like lump of rock, really. A _big_ rock. It might have been metal, I guess, but if it was, the blacksmith must have been having a seizure the whole time he was forging the fucker. Basically, if it didn't have a normal-enough handle, I'd have thought he'd just picked up a funny-ass rock."

"What, like Grant?"

"Yeah, like that. But scarier, and less hammer-ish. Looked like it had burn dust all over it, too. Damn thing glowed red when he swung it. And the bastard was swinging it about with only his left hand." He shook his head. "I took a hit from it, got knocked against a wall, got knocked out. Dunno what happened, but when I came 'round, I was on a Bullhead back to Shade."

"I saw him too," Quelaan said. "Quelaag went out looking for you once the ships arrived. She carried you onto the ship, then Lautrec came racing in behind, clutching a bleeding arm. That's when I saw him – the knight, he came charging around a corner after Lautrec. We barely got off the ground before he reached us."

"What happened to Lautrec?" Artorias asked.

"I don't know," said Quelaag. "He was on the same Bullhead as us, but he disappeared as soon as we landed. I can't really blame him. It was a mess back there."

"Wasn't he injured?"

"Yeah. I guess he had more important shit to do than get it patched up," Kirk shrugged. "He seems pretty tough. He's probably fine."

Artorias shared a glance with Winter. Lautrec could be important.

"So… random question – do you know what happened to Anastacia?" Artorias asked. Winter visibly suppressed a snort, amused by his lack of subtlety.

Quelaan shrugged. "No idea. I didn't see her on the Bullhead, but then again, she may have been on a different one."

"The mute blonde girl, right?" Kirk asked. "I didn't see her when Lautrec and I were searching the town, either. Or at least, I don't think I did. Can't say I was paying much attention to _who_ we were rescuing."

"She might have escaped early, I guess, but… a lot of people died," said Quelaan. Artorias nodded, understanding her meaning – she might not have made it out alive.

"It could have gone worse," said Quelaag. "Why Anast-"

"We have visitors!?" An insufferably high pitched voice came from the doorway, making Artorias' sensitive wolf ears flatten in irritation. He looked at the source – a spindly man with skin so pale he looked a sickly green stood in the doorway.

"Just leaving, Eingyi," he said, jumping to his feet. "Good to see you're all safe. I'll see you around." he said.

Quelaan mouthed two words to him; _save us._ Artorias wiggled his fingers in a mocking wave as he left, Winter following him out.

"So, what did you make of all that?" she asked.

"We got something, at least," he said. "Lautrec's our big lead."

"It seems that way," she mused. "The innocent never run. And he was injured. Vacuo is disorganised in a lot of ways, but Shade wouldn't turn away a Hunter in need of medical assistance. He's got something to hide."

"Could you check the academies' records?" he asked. "He must have been trained somewhere."

"Which academy would you be referring to?"

"Don't give me that," Artorias deadpanned. "Atlas is great at sticking its nose in other people's business. _All_ the academies."

"I think you overestimate Atlas' power."

"But you can do it, right?"

She grimaced. "It might take a while."

"There you go," grinned Artorias.

"There should be records of each trained Hunter's equipment as well. I'll see if anything matches the knight's weaponry – but I wouldn't count on it."

"'Big fucking sword' isn't that useful, I guess," said Artorias. "I'm gonna head into town this afternoon. Ana told me she's been sorting out the refugees. If Anastacia's down there, Ana would have seen her."

"You're going to have to pick a new nickname, Artorias."

"Can't be bothered," he said.

She pursed her lips. "We'll meet tomorrow morning to go over what we find. Unless there's another lead to chase here, we'll head out to Izalith afterwards and see if this man amongst the Grimm left anything behind."

"Do I get a say in this?"

"Do you have anything to say about it?"

"Well, no," he admitted, "but I'd like the option." Winter began to roll her eyes, but caught herself halfway, settling on an accusing deadpan. They came upon a crossroads – the path splitting between the town and the CCT tower.

"It's… good to see you again, you know."

"Careful, Schnee. That was dangerously close to a compliment."

"It's all you're getting. Good luck, Artorias."

She turned towards the CCT tower, holding one hand up in a farewell salute as she walked away.

"I don't need luck," he grumbled, then set off down the road to the city.

/-/

Artorias sent a short message to Quelana on his scroll – _usual haunt_ – then pushed open the door and stepped into the bar.

It was a dimly lit place. To the left, people crowded around pool tables, drinks half-forgotten in their hands. The booths, on his right, were mostly empty – one was occupied by a team from Shade he recognised, but had never spoken to. The bar itself was tended to by a short, stocky man, with skin tanned brown by the desert sun.

He sat at a booth, content to wait.

Barely a minute passed before someone joined him, but it wasn't Quelana. It was a man with broad shoulders, bald head, and an auburn beard.

"I'm not here to fight," said Artorias.

Smough nodded and sat across from him, putting his drink down on the table. Artorias could smell him from across the table – this definitely wasn't Smough's first drink.

"What do you want?"

"I'm thinking."

Artorias raised a curious eyebrow and reclined in his seat.

"I don't like you," said Smough finally.

"Duh."

Silence again.

"Might wanna work on those social skills."

"Can it, mutt," he growled.

"My point exactly."

Smough sighed, but did not speak.

"Look, come on, you gotta give me something here. You approached me, Smough."

Smough rolled his eyes and drained his glass, then looked Artorias in the eye.

"Why do you want to be a Huntsman?"

The question caught him off guard. "Hmm?"

"You heard me."

Artorias let out a long breath, recalling what he'd told Team Juniper. "I… wanted independence, I guess. Why do you care?"

"That's no answer, mutt. Everyone has independence. Except for children. Well, most."

"Living behind walls," Artorias retorted. "Not enough for me."

Smough snorted. "And why not? Why couldn't you cower behind a wall?"

"Why do you care?"

Smough sighed, but didn't respond.

"Why are you such an ass?" He'd meant to ask again – _why do you care_ – but the new question just slipped out unbidden from the recesses of his mind. Not that it was a _new_ question. It was an old one, long unspoken. Well... not entirely unspoken. Just unanswered.

Smough shrugged.

"No," Artorias said, shaking his head. "I don't know how the hell you were raised, but your brother is the best person I've had the honour of meeting. And you-" he let out a frustrated growl, trying to put his anger into words, "-you are _everything_ that he is not." Smough visibly flinched, looking down into his empty glass. "How the fuck did that happen?"

"None of your damn business."

"Don't give me that. You tormented me since the day I set foot in Shade."

"Don't play the victim, wolf," he scoffed. "You watched every step I took."

"Not well enough, it seems."

"She's fine."

"Almost wasn't."

"Congratulations, you got to play the hero – Artorias the Wolf Knight," he mocked. "What – you think things just get better? Because _you_ step in to fix them?"

"So you bully faunus to teach them an oh-so valuable lesson about the real world? Spare me."

"Fine, sure, whatever – I'm a racist. That? Nothing to do with her being a faunus _._ And it was never just you lot, anyway. Ask Octavia, or Eingyi, or Petrus. I guarantee you, they all remember my name. I did it because it _felt good_ , wolf. That's why. Fuck – I lost it. Fine. I went too far. I admit it. But by God, it felt good."

"You're despicable."

"If you say so. But I don't think you're any different. Just two ears and a shit-ton of self-righteousness."

"Get out of my sight," Artorias glowered, his voice dangerously low.

Smough held his gaze for a few seconds, then stood. "It was real, you know," he said. "Like it or not, I'll remember your name until the end of my days." Then he was gone, and Artorias found himself alone, a copper signet ring in his hands that he couldn't remember removing from his finger.

He shut his eyes, clenched his fist around the ring, and let visions careen against closed eyelids.

A glyph. Amity against the sky. Then Smough.

Then blood.

"Are you alright?"

His eyes shot open. Quelana stood over him, concern written on her face. His throat felt dry.

He fumbled as he slipped the ring back onto the index finger of his right hand. "More-or-less."

"Seems accurate."

He let out a sigh. "Run-in with Smough."

"Hmm," she nodded in understanding. "Whiskey, then?"

He nodded, dragging himself from the booth, and they made their way to the bar, claiming stools to sit on. A brief hand-wave ushered the bartender over, and their drinks followed soon after.

"So – a civil conversation with Smough? Pardon me, but what the hell were you talking about?"

"Civil?"

"This fine establishment seems to be in one piece yet. Unless you did a swift job on the repairs…"

"I'm very good with gaffer tape," he quipped.

"A likely story. What did he want to talk about? Oh, don't say he's your rebound. Gilderoy would be awfully disappointed."

"Very funny," Artorias said dryly. "I'd rather not talk about it."

"Understandable."

He held up his drink. "To ignoring our problems."

"Come now, that's not healthy," she insisted, but clinked her glass against his, and together they drank. The bartender offered a refill.

"How are you?" Artorias said, suddenly acutely aware that he had yet to ask, and that there was a yawning silence to be filled.

"I've certainly been busy," she said.

"Not the question."

She looked up at him.

"I miss you," he murmured, the words tumbling from his tongue unbidden. _Gods – I'm not a lightweight, am I?_

"Let's not go there," Ana said. "Not tonight, at least. The phrase 'dead in a ditch' comes to mind."

"I'm still set on that, by the way."

"You'll move on."

"Have you?"

She seemed caught off guard, but she shook her head, almost imperceptibly. A long breath escaped her. "To eschewing reason," she said, raising her glass.

"That doesn't sound healthy either."

They drank. A refill came.

"And the less said on that, the better, I suspect," she said.

Artorias nodded in agreement. He had too much to worry about to return to a relationship that they both had deemed too foolish to pursue.

"So, as good as it is to see you all again, I'm not just here to check your sisters are okay."

"Hardly surprising. Ozpin doesn't sound like the type to exempt you from classes lightly. What's going on?"

"It's… classified. Have you seen Anastacia Sil since Izalith fell?"

"No."

"Has anybody mentioned seeing her?"

"No."

"Classified business concluded," he said, though without any cheer. Chances were growing slimmer that Anastacia was still alive.

"Is it so classified that you can't tell me anything more?"

"It's so classified that I don't _know_ anything else. Sorry, Ana."

She shrugged and raised her glass. "To Izalith?"

A bitter smile crossed Artorias' face. "To Izalith."

* * *

 **Nobody likes Eingyi. And Smough becomes even more of an ass. I thought I was going to stop doing that.**

 **I've said it before, but Havel is fun. I like those very understated, gruff characters. Still, I feel like he's lost something since I first wrote that bit (even though it barely changed). Maybe it was just a honeymoon period.**

 **Quelana was the toughest character to write this chapter, and it probably shows. Hell if I know how good-terms ex-relationship people talk to each other. I went for more restrained humour, tried to make it seem a little awkward - hopefully it worked.**

 **Y'all probably saw Lautrec coming the moment Anastacia's name got dropped. It should be fairly obvious who the weird-knight-guy is too, though I'll refrain from mentioning his name in case somebody didn't connect the dots. It may seem odd to be pitting him against Lautrec, but... it'll work. Trust me.**

 **Next chapter - April 14th.**


	9. Chapter 8: Izalith

Artorias was awakened by a weight settling on his chest. One eye cracked open – a large grey cat was sat there, watching him, her tail flicking idly from side to side.

"What time is it?"

The cat, being unable to understand language, did not respond. Artorias rolled his eyes and reached for his scroll.

It was five in the morning.

"You're worse than Gil," he muttered. Despite his annoyance, he focused his semblance-

 _Impatience. Anger. Loneliness._

"Sorry Alvina," he said, ruffling the cat's fur. A quiet purr-

 _Annoyance. Love. Comfort._

"I thought so," Artorias smirked. His semblance allowed him to understand what it was animals tried to communicate – but was limited somewhat to the animals' own understanding. They did not communicate through complex language, but through emotion. He'd met a few – mostly housepets – with a basic grasp of language, but for the most part his semblance was restricted to threadbare communication. And it only went one way – if he wanted to talk back (and be understood), it was always through body language or through tone of voice, not through the words themselves.

He still wasn't quite sure whether anybody owned Alvina. The grey cat had just showed up at Team Gwyn's window one day, back when they were first years. Apparently, she'd lived at Shade for as long as anybody could remember, but since Artorias had arrived she'd stuck around with him more than most other students, probably because he could understand her better than anyone else.

Alvina purred again – this one a louder, more defined "meow".

 _Alarm. Stranger. Curiosity. Distrust._

"You gonna see who it is, or- okay, I probably won't be back again for a few months, bye kitty cat!" Alvina slipped from his hands and darted for the window (which Artorias could have sworn had been closed when he'd come back from the bar), leaping into a bush a few stories below. Artorias watched her scramble free and take off into the waning night.

Someone knocked at his door – presumably whoever it was that Alvina had heard.

"It's five in the morning," he said, throwing it open.

Winter stood there, one eyebrow raised. "Good to know you can read a clock," she said.

"I hope you're not just here to annoy me," he said, though he stood aside to allow her entry.

"I want to go over our findings."

"It's five in the morning," he said again.

"So it is." Winter's eyes narrowed, and she sniffed suspiciously. "You're not hungover, are you?"

"I'd like to think that I don't get hungover – only irritable."

"Are you irritable?"

"It's five in the morning," he repeated.

"Then you're fine," she said, though her trademark vicious smile said she didn't particularly care if he was anything else. "Did you find anything in town? You _did_ talk to Quelana, didn't you?"

"…It's five in the morning."

"If we're heading to Izalith today, I'd rather we leave early."

"Early is a relative term."

"Early is when I say it is," she said. "Did you talk to Quelana?"

"Do you really think I'd drink alone?"

"Depends," she said, "on why you're drinking."

"I talked to her," he said. "Nothing on Anastacia. How about the academy records?"

She shook her head. "Nothing – unless he was going by an alias. Do you know what kind of weapon he uses?"

Artorias thought back to their brawl. "Curved swords. Like, super-curved, not regular-curved like yours. Don't think they were mechashift, but hey, I was drunk."

"Very helpful," she said dryly. "I'll keep that in mind, but it won't be easy to confirm anything on weapons alone. Especially ones so… basic." She let out a sigh. "I'll meet you at the ship. You've got half an hour; don't be late."

"Late is a relative term."

"Late is when I say it is," she said, walking out the door and disappearing into the hallway.

/-/

Artorias stepped into the cockpit, humming quietly to himself. Winter's ship – as he'd expected – was very sparse. The main compartment was lined with storage rooms full of disabled Atlesian robots. One locked door, he assumed, lead to Winter's personal quarters, leaving only the boarding ramp and the cockpit.

If her narrowed eyes and tense jawline were any indication, Winter was annoyed by his incessant humming. That, of course, was his goal.

"So…" he said, "you don't have a butler stowed away somewhere?"

She sighed. "No."

"A cook?"

"There's no kitchen."

"Of course, who am I kidding – it'd be a chef."

"There's no chef."

"How about a pilot?"

"I'm the pilot."

"Yeah, but are you? I mean, did you have to fire someone else so you could fly the ship?"

"Perhaps I should hire you," she said, arching an elegant eyebrow.

"No thanks. I'd be in a dust mine before I could say 'minimum wage'," Artorias joked.

Her face fell, and she remained silent for a time. "We're close," she said at last.

Artorias looked out the observation window. On the horizon, he saw Izalith, its streets paved with red sandstone winding between buildings of brick and timber. Artorias recalled his first visit – the air had shimmered with the heat, giving the town an ethereal atmosphere, as though it was hardly there. Now, the air was still. But the town wasn't there – not properly. Its people had left, or been killed.

A shame, really. Izalith had been a dream in the summer.

As they came closer, the edge of the desert came over the horizon. To the west, mountains; to the north, forests. Then, closer still, the damage to the town became more apparent. Grimm were rather inconsistent after an attack. Sometimes, they stick around to consume the fallen, to destroy humanity's creations. But sometimes, they'd move on as quickly as they'd come.

It seemed that they'd taken at least some time out of their busy schedules to ruin Izalith. Some buildings were mercifully spared, but the majority had been damaged, ranging anywhere from having only some windows shattered, to being reduced to piles of rubble.

"I'll open the hatch for you," said Winter. "We'll fly over once before landing – keep an eye out for Grimm."

"Or our large-weaponed friend," he said. "I'm on it."

He tapped the doorframe as he exited the cockpit, making his way to the boarding hatch. It opened for him, though the ramp did not extend. Artorias grabbed a handhold and leaned out to look down over the town.

For a while, it seemed eerily empty. He'd expected to see half-eaten bodies lying abandoned in the streets, some stray Grimm that had yet to move on – perhaps even looters who had come to grow rich from others' suffering. But he saw none of those things.

Not for a while, at least. When the ship came to pass over the main square, he spotted a pile of bodies around the side of the town hall. But not any evidence as to who put them there – or why.

He made a mental note of it and maintained his vigil.

As they approached the northern edge of the town, Artorias spied some Grimm – Howlers, by the look of it, as common to Vacuo as Beowolves were to Vale. Howlers were eerie, spindly creatures that laughed and looked like hyenas, but the largest could grow to be taller than a man. Dangerous in numbers, but otherwise easy prey.

The pack he spotted numbered a little under two dozen – not enough to pose much of a problem even if he'd been alone.

He turned away as they flew clear of the town and returned to Winter.

"Report," she said. He rolled his eyes.

"Not even a please. Grimm in the north, manageable. Bodies have been piled up in the main square – might have been looters, but there's no other sign of them."

She nodded. "We'll land to the north, clear out the Grimm, then make our way towards the middle of town."

"Do I-"

"Only if you have anything to say," she said, manoeuvring the ship over to a clear space for landing.

He smiled a little, and drummed his fingers against the wall. "Just wanted the option," he said.

She was silent for a few seconds, focusing on landing the ship. As the landing gear locked, the ship shuddered light, and Winter let out a sigh. "You're insufferable," she said. She stood and pushed past him.

"I know," he teased, following her down the boarding ramp. "But I have to suffer myself every single day. How do you think I feel?"

"I tend to severely dislike people like you, you know."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He adopted a light-hearted tone in saying it, but it was a legitimate question – he'd felt a shift in her tone, a certain gravitas to her cadence that didn't quite suit banter.

"People who struggle to take things seriously."

"I make light of things. It's what I do," he shrugged. "If I spent all my time taking things seriously, I'd have hair so white I'd be mistaken for a Schnee."

"Well, you already have grey hair."

"Silver hair," he corrected. "I just don't see the point of worrying about things," he said. They rounded a corner to find the pack of Howlers staring them down. "Unless those things have glowing red eyes and bone-armour. And even then… Plan?"

"Boost me. You attack from the front; I'll flank from behind."

He smiled gently, flexing the fingers of his gauntleted left hand. "You got it."

A small push with his aura sent the thick metal plates of the gauntlet sliding apart rapidly, unfolding and expanding piece by piece until he wore no gauntlet at all, but instead held a large shield, thin but sturdy.

He'd kept it a secret at Beacon – a hidden advantage to save for the tournament. But now he was free to use it – unless Winter told Weiss about it. But then, it wasn't like Winter hadn't already known.

He bent his knees, held the shield above him, and then the moment he felt a weight settle on it he pushed upwards with all his strength. For a moment, he considered ditching the shield for his dagger, his usual style for fighting Grimm, but taken by whim he decided to stick with sword and shield.

He dashed forwards, meeting the Howlers head on. The first slammed into his shield, and he ducked into it, throwing it behind him bodily. His sword sang upwards, slicing the second's head off in a single blow. His left arm came back into position and the bottom of the shield braced against the dirt, catching the biting strikes of two more on its surface before he thrust forwards, impaling one, and cutting outwards to knock aside the next. A brief respite afforded him the opportunity to finish off the first Howler, only just recovering from where it had landed behind him.

With a laughing howl of his own, he charged deeper into the fray, blade whistling through the air again and again to cut down the Grimm, using his shield as a bludgeoning tool almost as much as a defensive one. Not far off, he saw Winter doing very much the same, carving a path through the Howlers like they were but paper.

It was a short, bloody affair, lasting five minutes at most, ending with the two Hunters standing strong and the Grimm disintegrating around them.

"That went well," he mused, dusting himself off.

"A good exercise," she agreed, sheathing her sabre and setting off towards the middle of town again. Artorias rolled his eyes.

"You wouldn't mind _not_ mentioning my shield to Weiss, would you? I'm keeping it under wraps for the tournament."

"I won't make promises," she grinned. "I'm rather hoping to see her succeed."

"And not me? Ouch," he laughed. "Team Gwyn had a real chance at the last tournament, you know."

"I remember," she assured him. "If you make it to the one-v-ones again, who do you plan to send?"

"Gil wants to see what the other combatants can do first," he said. "We sent Ciaran last time, but Havel beat her in the first fight." It had been a long, drawn out fight – Ciaran could barely chip at Havel's aura, but she'd been too agile for Havel to land many blows of his own.

"Mr Rockwell isn't in the tournament this year, correct?"

"Haven't you read his file?"

"We don't have a file on him, Artorias. We don't have files on most people."

"But you do have one on me, right? Artorias Nym, the Wolf Knight, an overall decent guy, instrumental in saving Amity."

"Involved in disrupting a terrorist plot to destroy Amity Colosseum," she corrected. "While I agree it would have been difficult without your assistance, Atlas records are worded a little more objectively. And there's none of that 'Wolf Knight' nonsense, either."

"Rude," he muttered. "Eh, whatever. What else does my file say about me?"

"You know this is classified, don't you?"

"Is it anything I wouldn't already know? Do I have a secret half-brother who rules a criminal empire or something?"

"I'll admit, I haven't read it since I sent it in."

"You wrote my file?" he asked.

"It was part of my report for the Quill conspiracy," she said. "I'm… sorry if you consider that a breach of trust. I have my orders."

"Pfft. I'm flattered," he said, though not entirely truthfully. He couldn't quite place his finger on it – he didn't particularly mind, but it didn't feel terribly right, either. "Nothing too condemning in there, I hope?"

"We received baby photos from your mother as part of the background check."

"Very funny," he said. But Winter only looked at him, a deadly smile plastered on her face. "You're not serious, are you?"

"Classified."

They passed through narrow sandstone streets, some a little obstructed by debris from the damaged buildings, but for the most part still clear. At length, they reached the main square. Across from them sat the town hall, one of the few built from imported materials; greenish-grey brick. In its shadow was the pile of bodies, its peak a little higher than Artorias was tall.

"I see what you mean," Winter said.

Artorias nodded dumbly. They approached the bodies.

Artorias felt the hairs rising on the back of his neck, and his ears twitched at the slightest sound – even their own boots striking the stone. Something felt very wrong. Perhaps he was just jumpy – they'd fallen quiet during their walk, and the empty streets had somehow become very oppressive. And besides – corpses were hardly a pleasant sight under any circumstance.

As they came closer, he spotted a shield leaning against the town hall's wall – a rectangular wooden shield embossed with steel and with the effigy of an eagle painted on its surface.

The mangled bodies grew in detail. Given that it had been days since the attack, they reeked horribly, the rot of death setting in. Flies flew around them, their incessant buzzing doing little to stave of Artorias' feeling of dread. But whoever had piled them up obviously held some respect for the slain – their eyes were all closed in their bloated faces.

A nasal voice he didn't recognise spoke. "Thirty-three and a half."

Artorias whirled around in surprise, cocking his fist back to face the stranger. But the man who spoke held his hands up warily to show he was unarmed, though there was a spear on his back. "Careful, friends. I'm not looking for a fight."

Artorias was struck with the thought that the bald man in front of him was rather angular: an angular jaw, angular brow, angular narrow eyes that slanted towards an angular nose.

"Sorry," Artorias said, lowering his fist. "Just… a little on edge."

"Well, I don't blame you," said the angular man. "Let's let bygones be bygones, shall we?"

Artorias nodded. "Are you a Huntsman?" Winter asked, gesturing to the spear on his back, and to the shield leaning against the wall.

"Me? Heavens, no – well, actually, I suppose I could be. I'm whatever I need to be. Huntsman, merchant, beggar… gravedigger." He gestured into the building to the pile of corpses. "Digging would take too long for that lot, though. Thought I'd go for a pyre; a funeral fit for a Lord."

Artorias tilted his head. "You're a religious man?"

The man laughed. "Gods, no. Yourselves?"

"No," said Winter curtly.

"Familiar, but not a believer," Artorias said.

"Ah, a man after my own heart. I have a certain fascination with religion. Lords, Brothers, Blood – I don't care what faith it's from. It's all very intriguing. Can't stand their worshippers though, I tell you what. Glad there aren't many of them left." He clapped his hands together. "Just gotta burn this lot and I can head home. You got any burn dust?"

Artorias reached into his pouch for a red crystal. "Not much. What did you mean by 'thirty-three and a half'?"

The angular man shook his head and waved a dismissive hand. "Gonna need powdered dust, not crystal," he said.

"I have a little," Winter said, "but I doubt it'd be enough."

"Hmm. A shame. Well, I suppose it could be thirty-four. Depends on if you count the all shrivelled-up woman as half, or as a full person. Actually, you know what? I'm gonna stick with thirty-four. Show of respect and all that."

"And you are?"

"Thirty-five, at this rate. Not that it's _particularly_ dangerous around here anymore, but I'd rather be home by nightfall. Any idea where to find some more dust in this place? I mean, could go with some sticks and a bit of the old-fashioned friction, but…"

"Wait," Artorias said. "The shrivelled-up one?"

"Exactly. The shrivelled-up one. Skins all dry, not very pretty."

"That doesn't sound much like a Grimm," Winter said.

"Doesn't look like it either. Wound on her throat – clean kill with a clean blade." Artorias frowned; Grimm claws were jagged and serrated to draw out the pain, create negative emotions, and attract more Grimm.

"What did she look like?"

"Dunno. Never saw her living, and now she's all…" he grimaced in disgust, "you know. What's it to you?"

Artorias and Winter shared a glance. "Mind if we take a look at her?"

The angular man shrugged. "Tell you what, though, she's right at the bottom – it's gonna be a struggle to get her out from under there. I'll give you a hand if you help me find some burn dust afterwards."

"Deal," said Artorias.

Thirty-five clapped his hands and turned to walk towards the corpse pile. "So," he said, grabbing an arm and unceremoniously dragging a man from the top, "what's your favourite religion?"

"Hmm?"

"Rather, which one interests you most? Everyone has their own perspective on such things, I find – and I'm interested in all of them."

"The perspectives or the religions?" Artorias asked.

"Both," he said, grabbing the arms of a rather obese headless body and motioning for Artorias to help with the legs.

"I'm most familiar with the Lords," he said, referring to the stories surrounding the belief that the kingdoms were built by the wielders of immensely powerful souls – the Lords – except for Mantle, for which the religion offered no explanation. "Not something I really think about, though."

"Fair enough, fair enough," Thirty-five mused. "Well then, given our current occupation – what's your take on the death of sunlight?" Artorias thought back to the story, in which the Lord of Sunlight was betrayed and killed by the other Lords.

"I think it's nonsense," Winter cut in. "I don't much see the point of a religion if the gods can die."

"Except for the immortal one," said Thirty-five, looking distastefully at a splash of rancid blood on his arm. "That one's undying by definition." He sighed and tore a relatively clean scrap of fabric from the clothes of the dead, wiping away the blood with it. "Let's say there were gods, capable of impacting our world – would you rather have them mortal, or immortal?"

"A fair question," Artorias said. "But the Lords have both. I'd rather have none."

"Fair, but boring," Thirty-five scoffed. "Well then, take the Brothers. You're familiar, yes? Two brothers, one makes the world, one makes some Grimm, they both make us – then they piss off and don't do anything ever again. See, it might be true. Might not be. But the thing is, it doesn't matter, because even if they do exist, they don't _do_ anything, not anymore. Them's the kinda gods I wouldn't mind believing in. They don't punish, they don't reward, they don't _care_. Doesn't matter if they exist or not."

"If I had a drink, I think I'd drink to that."

"Good news," laughed Thirty-five, "Grimm aren't alcoholics. Should still be something in the inn. Hey, maybe I could use that instead of dust." He shrugged and got back to work digging through the bodies.

After a few minutes, he said, "Aha!" reached down, and grabbed a decrepit left arm. "Found her. C'mon, get the other hand now."

They dragged the woman from the bottom of the pile. And Thirty-five was right – her skin was dry and wrinkled, browned like leather, clinging to her bones. Her eyes were sunken pits in her face, her pale, brittle hair hanging from her scalp as though it could fall from it at any moment. Dried blood full of spidery cracks flaked away from her neck at every movement, revealing more and more of a long, thin wound.

Even in such a state, she looked familiar, though Artorias considered that he might just be seeing what he expected to see. With a sigh, he crouched down and forced her mouth open.

The shrunken, twisted black stub in her mouth confirmed his suspicion. She had no tongue.

"Winter," he motioned for her to look too.

"Who was she?" asked Thirty-five.

"Somewhere between one and thirty-four, I'd imagine," said Winter, kneeling next to the body.

"You're a barrel full of laughs, aren't you? Well then – given as I ever-so-graciously offered my assistance digging her out of the pile, why don't you give me a hand giving these sorry fools a drink?"

"Hmm?"

"Dousing them with alcohol, I mean. You can douse yourself too, if you want – I won't judge."

"We'll pass on that one," Winter said, giving Artorias a meaningful look. He pouted, but couldn't hold the expression for long and broke into a half-hearted laugh. "But we'll help."

"Excellent." Thirty-five clapped his hands again. "I'll just grab the booze, then."

Artorias pointed to a wooden building across the square. "Tavern's there. We'll pile everyone back on, then come and help."

"Oh, I'm well aware," Thirty-five said. "Shan't be long, then."

As he headed off, Winter turned to Artorias. "Do you think it's Anastacia?"

"Yup."

"It looks like she's been dead for years," she said, "but she obviously wasn't buried. And the wound looks recent."

Artorias threw a corpse back onto the pile. "What do you think killed her?"

"Someone slit her throat."

"Obviously. But that doesn't explain the… everything else."

"I don't know either," Winter admitted. She stood and, with a grimace, moved over to a body to threw it back on the pile. "It's… unsettling, I admit. We only speak of this to Professor June, Professor Ozpin, and General Ironwood. Understand?"

"Hey, I get it. Secrecy and all that, panic draws Grimm, blah blah. Reckon there's anything else in town?" He heaved another body onto the pile.

"You were the one looking out, Artorias."

"I mean, I didn't see anything, but we were pretty high up, you know?"

She nodded. "We'll ask our new friend if he's seen anything out of the ordinary, I suppose."

"How long do you think he's been here?"

"Two, maybe three days. He must have searched the town quite thoroughly to find all the bodies."

"That I did," Thirty-five said. Artorias jumped in surprise – the angular man moved incredibly quietly. "Dreary place, I tell you what."

"Did you notice anything odd?" Winter asked.

"Not at all," he said. "I mean, aside from old shrivelled over there." He put the bottles on the ground gingerly and helped Artorias throw the last body onto the pile. "You want to keep looking at her, or should we throw her on?"

Artorias raised an eyebrow to Winter.

"Burn her," she said.

"Your call," said Thirty-five. "Looks like we'll need more liquor – if one of you wouldn't mind starting to pour, we'll grab some more."

Winter nodded and reached down, grabbing a bottle of rum and eyeing it distastefully.

"Well then, it's just you and me, friend," said Thirty-five. He slung an arm around Artorias' shoulder as they walked. "What say-"

"Don't get him drunk," Winter ordered, opening the bottle and pouring it over the corpses.

"Fine, fine," Thirty-five said, steering Artorias away.

"So," said Artorias, as they made their way across the square, "what's your real name?"

"I put great value on my name, you know," he said. "Call me trusty, call me friend, call me thirty-five, if you want, but if I told you my real name, I think I'd have to kill you."

"You're welcome to try."

"Trust me, if I were to try, it wouldn't be with an Atlas Specialist around. I'm a lot of things, but I'm not an idiot."

They stepped through the open door, which hung listlessly on its hinges, the lock broken.

"What about your name, Wolf?"

"I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours."

"I really don't want to kill you right now. I've had a long few days, you know?"

"Fair, fair. I'm Artorias." He walked behind the bar and started grabbing bottles – whiskey, rum – there was even some Mantle vodka.

"Mind if I ask why you're here?"

"One of life's great mysteries, isn't it?"

"Religious discussion is over, friend," Thirty-five said, "but I'll respect your privacy if you respect mine."

They made their way back over to the pile, their arms full of bottles. They clanked loudly as they put them on the ground, then grabbing one each to pour over the corpses. Working in silence for a few minutes, the stench of rot and decay was soon overtaken by the acrid smell of alcohol as it soaked into the skin and clothes of the deceased.

Artorias pulled out a red crystal from his pouch. "You want to do the honours?"

"A strange honour," said Winter. Thirty-five nodded in agreement, but took the crystal anyway. He closed his narrow eyes and focused, and the crystal began to glow. He threw it on the pile.

The flames caught quickly.

* * *

 **Not my best, I admit.**

 **I almost cut the Alvina part, but I wanted to establish how Artorias' semblance works now rather than later. And, as much as I'd like for Alvina to be communicating in thous and thouests and knowests, giving animals a complex understanding of language is a can of worms I'd rather not open. I don't want literate cats and dogs here, no sir.**

 **If Coco's handbag can turn into a minigun, Artorias' gauntlet can turn into a shield. Mechashift weaponry is convoluted in Remnant.**

 **I desperately wanted to have Patches do the classic Patches kick, but in the end it didn't really work here on account of him doing something slightly altruistic, and not wanting to piss off a dangerous Hunter. Left unspoken is that he looted every single one of those corpses before burning them.**

 **Next chapter - April 21st.**


	10. Chapter 9: Trust

Artorias flashed his scroll to the security guard as he passed through the gate, the document declaring that he was, legally speaking, a Huntsman already brought up on-screen. He'd been 'randomly selected' for a security screening many times before at the Vale airdock on his return trips from Flare. At the time, he'd been considered an 'armed civilian' by the law, making it harder to weasel his way out of it.

The security guard nodded and let him through. He looked back as he walked – a few people had been taken aside for a security screening, mostly faunus. _Welcome to Vale_ , he thought, _truly a bastion of equality._

He shook his head and put it out of his mind as he made his way to the Beacon terminal.

A familiar head of bright blonde hair caught his eye. And, apparently, he caught her eye too, for the girl strode purposefully through the thinning crowd towards him. "Wolfy!" Ciaran called as she came closer.

"Yo."

"How are they? Was anyone hurt?"

"Quelaan nearly gave me a heart attack, but they're fine."

"And you didn't get detention?"

"I don't think so."

"You don't think so?"

"That's what I said, oh ye of little faith. So, what are you doing in the city, C? Anything interesting?"

She held up a slip of paper, with a list of items scrawled all over it – mostly just different kinds of dust, but one entry at the bottom caught his eye.

"Bullet casings?"

She grinned proudly. "I bought a gun."

"Wait, you didn't modify your Tracers?"

"Nope."

"What kind of Huntress are you if your weapons don't even change form?"

"You're one to talk."

"Sure, it's not a gun, but at least it's got that mechanical goodness," he said, mockingly cradling his gauntlet.

"The gun part is far more important," Ciaran argued. "But if you're happy being a second-class Huntsman…"

"I certainly hope I haven't given the impression I try to be anything but."

She rolled her eyes. "Fine. Are you coming with?"

"Nah," he said. "I'd better talk to the rest of the team," he lied. He planned instead to report directly to Ozpin – but that, of course, was all very hush.

"I think if you were in my shoes, you'd call that lame," Ciaran pointed out.

"I'd also have very sore feet," he joked, stepping past her and holding up a hand in farewell. "I'll catch you later, C."

"Artorias," she called, "just… watch what you say, alright?"

He turned back to her. "What happened?"

She wore a pained expression, and she wouldn't meet his eyes. "Talk to Gil first. Trust me on this."

He nodded slowly, and Ciaran turned on her heel and set off into Vale.

/-/

Gough rubbed his eyes, squinting at the words scrawled on the page, his tired eyes skipping over words and forcing him to go back. It was an article over a decade old from a news outlet in Vacuo, describing a murder in some backwater village south of Shade.

He'd never felt the need to learn more about the man who'd killed his parents, and as far as he knew, neither had Smough. But, somewhere between then and now, the brothers had drifted apart. He'd known that for a long time, but only recently had it sunk in. And he wanted to know why it had happened. He wanted to know what had happened to his brother, to make him who he was now.

He rubbed his eyes again, glancing to his left. Blake, doing research of her own, had collapsed from exhaustion a few hours back. He didn't have the heart to wake her up, though he was sure she'd want him to. It was for her own good, he thought.

Realising that he was getting distracted, he turned back to the article.

/-/

"I'm glad you're back, Mr Nym. I trust you worked well with Miss Schnee?"

"Wouldn't have minded a lift back," Artorias said, taking a seat across from Ozpin. Per General Ironwood's instructions, Winter had returned directly to Atlas to file a written report. They'd speak in person as soon as an excuse could be found to send Winter to Vale.

"The pomp and circumstance of having her at Beacon would have drawn too much attention," Ozpin said. "Do you know the official story for her presence in Vacuo?"

"Can't say I do."

"Negotiating a deal with Shade for the SDC," he said, the shadow of an amused smile on his face.

"I'm not sure I see how that's funny, Professor."

"You're not sure?"

"I don't." Perhaps because Shade was so close to the Vacuo dust mine? There was some irony to that, he supposed, but then again, Shade already stocked its armouries with SDC dust due to the higher quality.

Ozpin paused for a second, his eyes glazing over as though considering a matter of great importance. "Well," he said at last, "I suppose it's from before your time. Tell me what happened at Izalith."

Artorias tilted his head quizzically, wondering what Ozpin was talking about, but then sighed and moved on. "Team Kitetail's story is that they defended the town until help arrived, aided by an older Huntsman named Lautrec, but were beaten back by a warrior who fought alongside the Grimm. Black armour. Longsword in right hand, huge greatsword in the left. Didn't see him myself, but that's the gist of it."

"Do you believe their story?"

Artorias shrugged. "I have no reason not to. We went to Izalith to check for anything out of the ordinary. It seemed like an average Grimm attack – maybe a little more destructive than most." He shifted in his chair. "We found Anastacia. She wasn't killed by the Grimm, though. Her throat was cut, and her body looked old, like she'd been dead and buried for years."

Ozpin frowned and raised an eyebrow. "Clearly that wasn't the case."

Artorias nodded. "It might have been the warrior who killed her, but then again, it might not have been. If it was, it's the only evidence of his existence. But I trust Team Kitetail, either way. They have no reason to lie."

"And this Lautrec – did he have any insight?"

"We couldn't find him. Winter… accessed the academy's records – all of them – to find anything on him, but if he trained at a Hunter academy, he was under a different name."

"I trust you'll keep an ear to the ground." Artorias nodded. "Is there anything else?"

"We met someone in Izalith. He was burning the bodies – out of respect, I suppose. It doesn't seem likely he was involved, but he seemed very fishy. He refused to give his name, and he always talked in riddles. Thought it was worth bringing up."

"Any distinguishing features?"

"He had a wooden shield with an eagle painted on it," Artorias said, "and he used a spear. But he said he didn't have any Hunter training, so it might be hard to track him down."

Ozpin steepled his fingers. "I trust you'll keep this between us, Mr Nym. Thank you for your assistance."

Artorias took the dismissal and stepped into the elevator. His scroll began to buzz halfway down – an unknown number. He answered it.

"Artorias Nym speaking."

" _Are you ready?"_ It was a grainy voice, as though pre-recorded and played back through the mic.

"I'm gonna go with no."

" _Are you ready for this Saturday night when-"_

"Quelaan?"

The recorded voice kept ranting for a few seconds– now backed by scratchy music – but Artorias clearly heard the girl curse before the recording shut off.

"How'd you change your number?"

" _Borrowed Eingyi's scroll,"_ she confessed.

"And by borrowed-"

" _I'm not a thief. All I had to do was ask. Are you back in Vale yet?"_

"Yup. Are you calling just to annoy me?"

" _Most certainly. You wouldn't happen to have any other numbers I could try, would you?"_ she asked, putting on her most childlike, innocent voice.

Artorias considered it – there were quite a few people it'd be amusing to see Quelaan pester. He almost gave her Winter's number, but then thought better of it. An idea struck. "I'll message one to you afterwards," he said. "Try not to spam it too much."

" _I'll spam it just enough,"_ she said. The elevator opened, and Artorias stepped out, making his way towards the dorms.

"Have you found a place to stay?"

" _June's letting me stay with the team for now, but big sis helped me find a little place near the ruined senate building. I've re-enrolled for next year, though, so I won't be there long."_

"Good," he said. "How's Ana doing?"

" _My, my, Artorias,"_ she crooned. _"Don't forget-"_

"Just asking," he said. "No need to be like that."

" _She's fine, Arty. Why wouldn't she be?"_

"Right." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Hey, I've got to go."

" _Keep in touch. And remember to send me that number."_ The line went dead.

Artorias sighed, almost pocketing the scroll before Quelaan's reminder sank in. He quickly sent her a number – Yang's number, to be precise – before stowing it away and opening the dorm.

Except the door was locked.

He sighed again, took his scroll out, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.

"Artorias," Gilderoy acknowledged, not even skipping a beat. He was seated at the desk, pen in one hand, probably scribbling down some asinine homework or something.

"Is there a pile of homework for me, too?"

"Doctor Oobleck was kind enough to not assign you any."

"I'll get to work on Port's, then."

"You don't need to lie for my benefit, Artorias."

"Did he even notice there was a student missing?"

Gilderoy's hand stopped writing as he thought about it. "It seemed not," he said.

Artorias walked to his bed, leaning against it. "Where's Gough?"

"Library."

"When's he coming back?"

"Probably not for a while."

"I hear that's probably for the best, then. I'm supposed to talk to you first."

"Are you?"

"Ciaran said so."

Gilderoy put his pen down and swung the chair around to face him. "She's probably right," he said.

"So. What happened?"

"Smough called."

"Is that odd?"

"Smough called Gough," Gilderoy clarified. "It was a few nights back. I didn't hear the conversation, but Gough says he was drunk."

"Ah," said Artorias. "I might know something."

"You saw him?"

"He saw me first. It was… civil. Kind of. But he was drunk then, too. He asked me some pretty weird questions – wanted to know why I want to be a Huntsman." Artorias tried to recall the details. "Then he accused me of being just like him. I told him to piss off, or something to that extent, anyway."

"Anything else?"

"I don't remember. Maybe I said something that really got to him? I dunno."

Gilderoy nodded. "Whatever happened, it's gotten Gough down. He's practically living in the library – I've no idea what he's doing there, but I'm giving him space."

"Want me to talk to him?"

"No," Gilderoy said. "Ciaran and I agree we should all just leave him be for now. Although…"

"Hmm?"

"Never mind." He sighed and ran a hand through his red hair, sweeping it back. "Did Smough seem alright?"

"He was drunk."

"Of course." Gilderoy's mouth formed a thin line. "I've been holding off on calling him."

"You could just never speak to him again. That works."

"I don't know why I thought I'd try talking about it with you," Gilderoy said.

"History shows it's a bad idea," Artorias laughed half-heartedly. "Look, I don't want to argue."

"No arguments. We won't go there," Gilderoy agreed.

/-/

"Forgive me, but you don't look very well."

Gough started, realising that he'd been staring listlessly at another news archive. He looked up to the man who spoke – a man with cropped blond hair, and with a red and yellow sun emblazoned on his tabard.

"I admit, I've been better," Gough said, "but I think I know my limits, and I think I have yet to reach them."

"Leave the poor man alone," said another – this one with short dark hair, a crooked nose, and a tattered red cape over one shoulder. "Let him work."

"Forgive my partner too," said the blond. "He's not the most sympathetic of people, but he does his best."

"That's a lie and you know it," said the man with the red cape, rolling his eyes. "I'll find us a table. Don't annoy him too much, or I'll have to run damage control. Again." Gough's watched him as he walked away.

"Do you want to talk about it?" the blond asked.

Gough's eyes snapped back to him. "I'm sorry if we've met, but I don't recall it."

"Neither do I, so I suppose we mustn't have. Solaire of Atlas, second year." He stuck his hand out, a pleasant smile on his face.

"Gough Iris. Shade, third year." They shook hands.

"I am quite serious – I don't mean to intrude, but you look like you need to talk to someone. Or get a good night's sleep, perhaps."

"And I don't mean to offend," said Gough, "but you're basically a stranger to me."

"You've yet to say you don't want to talk."

Gough sighed. "You're not wrong."

"Well then," said Solaire, "should we perhaps move away from sleeping beauty?" he asked, gesturing to Blake, "or do you think she'll sleep sound either way?"

"I think she'd be glad to wake up, though I'd rather not make her."

"Let fate decide, then. If she wakes, she wakes. If she doesn't, so be it." Solaire sat down next to Gough. "What's on your mind, friend?"

"Family," he said simply. "My brother is… upset with me. Upset with everyone, I think. And I want to know why."

"I'm afraid I'm no expert on family," Solaire said. "What's he like?"

Gough hesitated.

"No matter then. Have you tried asking him?"

"I don't think he wants to talk to me."

"Fair enough. So, what's he like? Sounds to me like he antagonises people?"

The thought flitted through Gough's mind that he was betraying his brother somehow by speaking ill of him – but then, antagonise was such a nice way to put it. Artorias antagonised people too. It wasn't a bad thing. Smough just did it in an awful way.

Was thinking ill of his brother as bad as speaking ill?

"Somewhat," Gough hedged.

"Out of ignorance or out of spite?"

"A bit of both, I think."

"So he enjoys doing it on purpose, but often does without meaning to anyway?"

And again, Gough found himself at a quandary. He knew that Smough liked holding power over people. But to say it out loud felt like a betrayal.

Gough nodded.

Solaire tapped his chin. "Like I said, I'm no expert on family. Personally, I see no reason to defend someone for a blood relation. Does it matter that he's your brother? You are connected only by an arbitrary chance of birth."

"I look for the best in people, family or otherwise," Gough protested. "It's who I am."

"Then I applaud you," Solaire said – and he did, though he kept his clapping short and quiet. "In that case, the only advice I can give is to recognise when someone is a lost cause. Is your brother a lost cause?"

"No."

"And if you find that he is, are you willing to give up on him?"

Gough hesitated again.

"It sounds to me like he's not worth losing sleep over. It takes a rare man to change the world. Likewise, it takes a rare man to change another man. If you can't, don't try. Others may benefit from your efforts," Solaire said.

Their eyes met. There was an honesty in Solaire's – something innocent, though perhaps burdened with years beyond his age.

Or maybe Gough was just losing his sanity as well as his sleep.

"I'll think on it."

"Good," said Solaire. "I'd best be finding Hawkwood before he drives somebody to suicide. It was nice to meet you, Gough."

/-/

 _Dear Priscilla,_

 _I met with the Lords when I arrived in Vale. I must say, they make for good company. The Wizard has a wit about him, a certain wisdom that Father lacks. He is, of course, just as old as Father, and as the Witch, but when I spoke to him he seemed older than both combined. He carries a great weight on his shoulders. Perhaps it is dangerous to care too much, about too many people._

 _But when the Witch was with him, the years seemed to fall away from him._

 _They are happy together. Sometimes I wonder, if Mother were still with us, would Father be as distant?_

 _Don't mind me._

 _The Emerald Forest is incredible, Priscilla. Imagine, if you would, the trees at the oasis. Imagine that there are thousands upon thousands of them, stretching as far as the eye can see. The sunlight sparkles through the leaves, painting the air golden and green. At night, there are little insects that chirp out a calming melody, and during the day there are birds in every branch. They sing like Gwynevere sings – pure and high and warm._

 _I mean that as a compliment, of course, though I doubt she'd like me comparing her to a bird. Let's keep that between us, shall we?_

 _The Emerald Forest is not a quiet place, but it is lonely. The voices of birds are a poor replacement for proper companionship. One day, I shall bring you here._

 _Your brother._

 _I love you, little Yorshka._

* * *

 **Feels like something of a return to form after last chapter, which I wasn't entirely happy with. Even if not much happened here, it happened in a way I was happy with, so that's always nice.**

 **And another little entry to the Priscilla thing. It's going places. Just very slowly.**

 **Next chapter - April 28th.**


	11. Chapter 10: Extracurricular

"…and so, through my great strength and sheer force of will, I latched on to the tentacle before it could pull me from my feet and heaved the beast from the watery depths onto the deck of the ship…"

In small, neat lettering, under the heading _Kraken_ , Gilderoy wrote in his notepad: _Draw onto equal footing._

"…even removed from its natural abode, my prey was a formidable sight – my seafaring companions cowered away. But I bravely charged in, years of training and natural instincts allowing me to dodge its writhing appendages…"

 _Still dangerous. Requires agility. Team effort – diversion and damage._

"Gil," Gough said. It wasn't quite a whisper – Gough's voice was one that commanded attention, even when quiet – but still, Professor Port (being Professor Port) didn't notice.

Gilderoy hummed his acknowledgement.

"I've got something."

Gilderoy glanced over briefly – instead of a notepad, Gough's scroll was on his desk, an article open too small for Gilderoy to read. "Afterwards," he whispered. Gough nodded.

/-/

"We have time for one more sparring match. Any volunteers?"

The audience was silent. Nobody wanted to fight after Pyrrha's display. _Everyone has an ego_ , Emerald mused. All the same, she didn't offer to fight.

"Miss Belladonna? You've been rather docile for the past few classes. Why don't you-"

"I'll do it."

And she hadn't offered to fight because this was _his_ task. Well, technically it was a task for both of them. But – not that she'd admit it to his face – he was the better fighter, and would be more likely to notice anything strange inside the ring. She'd serve better watching from the outside.

And besides. If wonder-girl was as good as they said, she wouldn't mind watching Mercury get knocked down a peg.

"Mercury, is it? Very well. Let's find you an opponent."

"Actually, I wanna fight… her." He pointed to Pyrrha.

"Me?"

"I'm afraid Miss Nikos has just finished a match. I recommend you choose another partner."

"No! It's fine. I'd be happy to oblige."

Emerald rolled her eyes as Mercury gave Goodwitch a cocky smirk. He made his way down to the sparring ring with a casual saunter while the professor reset the aura display.

Mercury attacked first.

He rushed forwards, planting his left foot on the ground and swinging his right leg up in a high kick. Pyrrha caught it on her shield and swung low, her blade tripping Mercury over. He spun on his hands, flipped onto his feet, and backed off.

Pyrrha was the one to re-engage.

She dashed at him, chambering a strike. Mercury countered with a kick of his own, and threw off her timing. She recovered quickly, her defence impeccable, and after a short but fierce exchange, she pushed Mercury backwards with her shield. His boots sparked along the ground as he skidded, but he kept his footing.

"Hey, your friend's doing pretty good!" _Ugh. Ruby._ Emerald offered what she hoped was a convincing smile and nodded in agreement.

Mercury took the initiative again.

He leapt into the air to bring his boot crashing down. Pyrrha caught it on her shield, but Mercury ducked low the moment he hit the ground, sweeping at her legs. She danced backwards, narrowly avoiding his attacks, then rolled away as he sprung back up, aiming a kick for her head.

Mercury gave her little time to recover, giving chase. She caught his next, lighter flurry of kicks on her shield. The next kick struck behind her small bulwark, and, blocking it with her sword hand, Pyrrha was thrown off balance. She barely recovered in time to deflect the next strike, once again with her shield, but was forced to let go of her blade.

The boot came flying towards her head again. It slammed into the back of her forearm, and as soon as Mercury chambered his next attack she reached backwards, grabbing her sword, and spun, bringing the weapon to bear against him. But her grip must have been loosened – he knocked it off course easily and kicked it out of her hand.

He pressed the advantage, aiming for her face with a reverse roundhouse kick.

But she dodged it.

 _No, she didn't._ Emerald peered closer. _Mercury missed._

And – though she'd only admit it very grudgingly – Mercury didn't miss.

He stumbled to his knees as the kick went wide, and Pyrrha came dashing in for another exchange. He leapt straight into the air, planting his feet on the face of her shield, then kicked off, gaining distance.

He turned to face Goodwitch as he stood back up.

"I forfeit."

 _He's got it._

/-/

"Were you paying attention?" Ciaran asked.

"Of course not," Artorias scoffed, stretching as he stood from the desk. "It's Port."

"It's important."

"It's im _port_ ant," Artorias corrected, smirking at Ciaran.

"It's genius."

"Thank you."

"Gods – not the pun, Wolfy. Port. He's-"

"Slightly insane," he finished for her. "Actually, very insane. Completely bonkers."

"Insanity and genius go hand in hand."

"Not always. But at least you admit he's insane."

Ciaran paused. "Eccentric," she admitted.

Gilderoy shook his head at their back-and-forth. He looked to Gough, but their eyes didn't meet. Briefly, he considered telling the rest of the team that Gough was (finally) planning to talk – at least a little – but decided against it. Gough knew what he wanted, and knew who he wanted to talk to.

"He set an assignment at the end of the lecture," Ciaran informed Artorias.

"Did he?"

"You're hopeless."

"Are we getting graded on it?"

She nodded.

"Is he going to remember that he set it?"

"You're not getting out of it."

"Fine."

"Fine?"

"Fine," he repeated.

"So you'll do it."

"Yup."

"Now?"

He winced. "Eh…"

"You'll do it now. Get it out of the way."

Gough tapped Gilderoy on the shoulder, drawing his attention away before they broke into one of their petty half-arguments, and the two slipped away, heading towards the privacy of the dorm. Gough was silent the whole time, though he calmed his fidgeting hands halfway by pulling out his whittling knife and a ball of wood, aimlessly carving as he walked.

Once they reached the dorm, he pocketed the distraction and leaned against the desk.

"I've been researching my brother," he began.

"So we gathered," Gilderoy said. When they'd approached Gough about it not long after Artorias' return, he'd requested politely that they let him sort it out himself. But he was hardly subtle about it, and it hadn't been difficult to discern the object of his interest.

They'd abided by his request on the condition that he look after his health. And he had, though he'd neglected some schoolwork. But he would keep up, they were sure.

"There wasn't much," Gough said. Gilderoy nodded – most of the news outlets in Vacuo were closer to gossip magazines, delivering the interesting details of life in the strange kingdom of Vacuo to the other corners of the world. The nitty-gritty details were rarely reported.

"I was looking through-"

"Gough," Gilderoy cut in, "I don't want to go behind Smough's back."

"It would be difficult for me to talk to Artorias and Ciaran about this," Gough said.

"I know."

"I… I need someone to talk to, Gilderoy. But I don't want to burden you."

"It's alright," Gilderoy sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Have you spoken to Smough directly?"

Gough shifted. "Not since he called."

"I haven't called him either," Gilderoy admitted. A pang of guilt shot through him. He'd been considering breaking up with Smough, in fact.

There were a few reasons. Smough was causing a rift in his team – he wasn't blind to that, though they'd somehow fallen into a routine of ignoring the schism. And, truth be told, Gilderoy missed the early days, when he and Artorias never disagreed, never fought, never argued – when they didn't tiptoe around topics like shards of glass.

But that wasn't the main reason.

Gilderoy had ambition. He wanted to make Vacuo safe, make it secure. And Artorias had been right, that day they'd gone in to Vale. If Smough continued as he did, he would end up in prison eventually. He didn't want to have to choose, when the time came. Perhaps if he'd had a Huntsman's credentials, it'd be possible to give Smough some leeway – but he'd never graduate. Not anymore.

Still, he hadn't committed to breaking it off. It was entirely possible that his ambitions would never come to fruition, after all, though he was loath to admit it. And their little team issue might resolve itself.

"Talk. I'm listening," Gilderoy said finally.

Gough let out a sigh of relief. "Has Smough ever told you what happened to our parents?"

Gilderoy nodded.

"I could only find one article about it. But I noticed something strange; there's a description of a suspect."

"I don't follow."

"It also doesn't name any witnesses."

A strange contradiction. "But somebody had to have described the suspect, right?"

Gough nodded. "I think Smough saw it happen."

/-/

"I need your help, Artorias," said Sun.

"I'm hurt," Ciaran said, not looking up from her book. Sun stumbled backwards, clutching his chest as though his heart had given out.

"She left the dorm. She never leaves the dorm. Are you alright, C?"

She peered over her book, raising one eyebrow at the monkey faunus.

"Fine," said Sun. "Artorias?"

"Busy," said the wolf. It was the truth, too. As it turned out, Ciaran hadn't lied. There was homework. It was important homework. It had to be done before the dance. That left a few days – but Ciaran was adamant that he get it out of the way early.

He'd managed to weasel a bargain out of it – he'd do it today, and in return, she'd have to eat something of his own creation. And he'd get to film it – for blackmail or just for his own amusement, he wasn't yet sure.

Mustard would be involved. Obviously.

"It's Blake," Sun said, ignoring him. "I tried asking her to the dance, but she's all like 'it's stupid' and 'I'm too busy' – kinda like you, actually, but about the dance and not about my problems."

"Yup. Busy."

"Sooo… I was thinking if we chase down that Yarrow thing, she'd be like 'yeah nice job the White Fang can wait for two seconds' or something. You wanna get the Yarrow thing?"

"Do you remember what happened last time I was doing homework and you came to me with a plan?" Artorias asked, scribbling down some nonsense comparing Howlers and Beowolves, padding out the word length with as many superfluous, unnecessary, and overall redundant words as he could.

"Uh, we went and fought a giant robot in a high-speed chase and it was awesome?" _He's not wrong._

Artorias put his pen down with a sigh, deciding to try a different tactic. "Sun, if there's one thing I've learnt from Ciaran, it's that if you give in to her demands instantly, nothing will change."

Sun glanced between them. "Pretty sure she hates your guts."

"I just have a healthy respect for his desire to disagree with me," Ciaran corrected, tapping the desk to emphasise her point. Artorias nodded in agreement.

"And she's finally learned that I will get things done... eventually," he said.

"Except for the homework I pulled you away from," Sun pointed out.

"I'll have you know, I got that done," Artorias said, wagging a finger at him. Sure, it had barely met Oobleck's standard, but he _had_ done it. And that was what mattered, right?

"He wrote a two-thousand-word essay in the hour before class," Ciaran said.

"My greatest academic achievement," Artorias said wistfully.

"He was under threat of being thrown off a cliff. I've never seen him so motivated."

"Nice."

Artorias rolled his eyes. " _Anyway_ , Sun, here's my point. If I sat down and did my homework every time Ciaran told me to, she'd take it for granted that she can order me to do my homework. Because I _don't_ do that, she-"

"I still order you to do your homework but you kick up a fuss about it?" Ciaran teased.

"But you compromise with me," Artorias said, his ears twitching irritably. "I won't do _exactly_ what you want, just _kinda_ what you want."

Ciaran frowned in thought, considering it for a moment, then she shrugged. "I take what I can get. But what is it you're doing now?"

"Mustard, C. Think of the mustard."

"How does this help me with Blake again?"

Artorias looked up in thought. Surely he'd brought it up for a good reason – but now it escaped him.

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"He just likes talking about me," Ciaran said.

 _Let's try again._ "Look, Blake's gonna keep focusing on the White Fang, right?"

"Right."

"Can you convince every White Fang operative in Vale to become peaceful, or put them all behind bars, all before the dance?"

Sun looked up, his brow furrowing in thought. _Really? You have to think about it?_ "Eh, probably not."

"Then she's gonna keep focusing on the Fang before anything else, right?"

"I guess."

"So chasing this Yarrow lead isn't going to change her mind."

Sun nodded in understanding. "So you're saying… we should go after their hideout in the south-east?"

 _Idiot._

"He's saying that you can't reach through to her by dealing with the White Fang," Ciaran said. "You've got to talk to her and compromise with her." _Right, compromising, that's the important part._

"You think that'll work?"

Artorias shrugged. "Clearly she's not really listening to you. Unless you can come up with some beautiful heartfelt speech to convince her to take a break from the Fang, it's probably best to leave her alone. Let someone else do it."

Sun nodded again. Artorias picked up his pen once more, and resumed writing.

"Hey Art-"

"I'm not writing a beautiful heartfelt speech for you," Artorias said bluntly.

"No, man, it's not that," said Sun. "Who're you going to the dance with?"

Artorias' pen froze, just for a second. "I… haven't really thought about it." That was a total lie. He'd found his thoughts turning to Quelana often since his trip back to Vacuo. But, unfortunately, she hadn't qualified for the tournament – hadn't even applied, in fact – and they weren't dating anymore either way.

"That's cool," Sun said. "You can go stag."

"Lone wolf," Ciaran said offhandedly, not even looking up from her book.

"Thanks, C," Artorias grinned, offering a fistbump. Ciaran didn't reciprocate, but a smile crossed her features.

Artorias shrugged and went back to writing, and Sun took a seat next to him, rocking back and forth restlessly in his chair.

"Soooo…"

"If this isn't vitally important, I'm gonna go find a nice, _quiet_ spot to finish this," Artorias warned.

"Just wondering if you'd ever seen that guy in my year, he gets up like, super early every morning and sits out on the cliffs. Kinda weird, right?"

Artorias stood and closed his notepad.

"I'm out. Catch you later, C."

/-/

"Hey, um, Blake, are you alright?"

Jaune didn't know Blake that well. Actually, he knew basically nothing about her; she hardly talked in his presence, and it was even rarer for her to talk directly to him.

But dammit, he considered her a friend.

"I'm… fine." She certainly didn't look 'fine', or 'alright' or any other word to describe someone in a healthy physical and/or mental state.

"Uh, you sure?"

She spared one look at him, her eyes lingering and her brow furrowed when she noticed the guitar in his hands, then stormed off.

 _Eh, Team Ruby's probably on it. But without the 'b'. Team Roo-y?_

 _And hey, at least she spoke to me._

Jaune shrugged. Small victories.

As he reached the door to Team RWBY's room, he steeled himself, squaring his shoulders. He put on his best smile (he'd held a competition in the mirror; this _was,_ undeniably, the best smile he had), and gently laid his fingers over the neck of the instrument, forming a chord.

 _You got this._

He knocked on the door.

Lo and behold, Weiss Schnee was the one to open the door. _Lucky me._

"Weeeeeeiiiiiiiiiss!" he sang, strumming on the guitar.

She glared at him. _Oh god, what do I do, she's glaring, that's the scary glary glare._

He did the first thing that came to mind. He winked.

She slammed the door in his face.

He huffed, relaxing briefly. Once again, he puffed his chest out and planted his feet in a confident stance. He knocked again. "Oh, come on."

 _Knock knock knock._

"Open the door… I promise not to sing."

There was a brief moment of silence, and for a second he thought his efforts were in vain.

Then the door opened again.

His hands scrabbled over the guitar.

" _I liiiiiieeeeeeed!"_

Her palm met her forehead, but she didn't close the door. He took that as a good sign.

"Weiss Schnee! Will you accompany me…" _Keep going, you got this!_ "To the daaaaaaance oooooooon-" _oh god Sunday doesn't rhyme-_ "Sundaaaaaaaay!" _Just go with it!_

She made a sharp sound of contempt. "Are you done?"

"…yes?"

"No." She shut the door again.

 _Coulda gone worse, coulda gone better._

 _Okay, nothing short of a Grimm attack could have made that worse._

/-/

Gough held his scroll in his hands, his eyes fixed on it.

"Call him," Gilderoy said firmly.

"If he wanted to tell me, he'd have told me."

"I'm not blind, Gough. Smough has issues. He probably doesn't know how to talk about it. But I think he'd rather talk to you than me about this. Call him."

Gough grimaced, then shook his head. "I need to think more. About what to say."

"Don't put this off."

"It's not-"

"Gough, call him."

"No," he said firmly, his mind made up. "I'll do it when I'm ready."

"Gough-"

"I've made my decision," he said. There was steel in his gaze, and Gilderoy backed down.

"You'll do it when you're ready?"

"I'll do it when I'm ready."

"You'll know when you're ready?"

"I can only hope."

Gilderoy nodded, satisfied. "You alright?"

"I'm fine. Thank you, Gilderoy."

Gilderoy nodded again, this time in acknowledgement, and let out a breath he didn't realise he was holding.

"Do you want to-"

"I want to talk about something else," Gough said. "I need time."

"Of course."

"Artorias and Ciaran?"

Gilderoy and Gough had both seen a marked shift in the dynamic between Artorias and Ciaran since they'd come to Beacon. Neither could quite place their finger on it – but they could both tell that they were good for each other. Artorias was perhaps more relaxed around her than anyone else, and Ciaran enjoyed pushing Artorias. Especially when he gave ground, even just a little.

They'd always been like that, of course, but there was something else now. Something different.

It had been Gough's idea to try pushing them together for the dance. They'd been somewhat worried that Artorias wasn't over Quelana – but Gilderoy had been assuaged somewhat by Artorias' return from Vacuo, for the wolf faunus hadn't mentioned her since then.

"Artorias and Ciaran," Gilderoy confirmed.

"You have a plan?"

He didn't want to force them together so much as give them cause to spend more time together. If something came of that, fine. If not – well, it was their prerogative.

He wanted them to be happy. And unless he was willing to give up Smough – which he still wasn't sure about – neither of them could relax around him the way he wanted them to. Better, then, to set them up together and stay on the fringes.

"More-or-less."

/-/

"I'm actually thinking… maybe we just skip aura tonight? Might go on a jog or something," said Jaune.

"Come on – I know you get frustrated, but you _must keep trying_. I'm sure we'll discover your semblance any day now," said Pyrrha, a broad smile on her face. Artorias rolled his eyes at her optimism. Everyone's semblance was different. Gil had had his for years before Shade. Ciaran still didn't know hers.

 _Now, just need a decent concluding paragraph…_

"That's… not it. It's just – it's dumb."

"What is it? Jaune, you know you can tell me." She laid a supportive hand on his shoulder.

"It's… Weiss." _What a dramatic turn of events!_

Pyrrha visibly deflated, and backed away a little. _Wow, how does he not notice that?_ "Oh… what about her?"

"I asked her to the dance and she shot me down. Heh. Big surprise, right?"

"Well… I believe the saying goes," she said, choosing her words carefully, "there's plenty of fish in the sea."

 _And… done!_ Artorias finished his essay with a satisfied smirk.

"That's easy for you to say. You've probably got guys clamouring over each other just to ask you out."

"Heh… you'd be surprised."

"Oh please, if you don't get a date to the dance, I'll wear a dress. Ha!" Jaune waved her off, walking towards the stairwell.

 _Oh, why not?_

"Here's some advice."

"Artorias?!" they both shrieked (well, Jaune shrieked; Pyrrha let out a slightly more dignified yelp), jumping dangerously close to the roof's edge.

"No, I'm the Painter of Worlds," he mocked, rolling his eyes.

"What are you – how long-"

"Doing an essay, been here the whole time," he said.

"How can you even see?" asked Jaune.

"Dude." Artorias wiggled his ears. "Faunus."

"Oh," said Jaune lamely. "Right."

"Where was I?"

"You were going to offer unsolicited advice?" Pyrrha prompted. Her voice was kind, but Artorias didn't miss the little barb.

"About Weiss, yes. So, when I was your age, a friend of mine gave me a real big truth bomb," he said. Except, not long afterwards, he and Winter had gone off to deal with a literal bomb.

Good times.

" _When I was your age?_ " Jaune said incredulously. "What are you, my dad?"

"I certainly hope not. Anyway, here's the deal. Ask her out; if she says no, move on."

"But-"

"I get it. _Moving on_ is easy to say, harder to do. It felt like she hadn't given me a fair chance. That sound right to you?"

He nodded.

"She gave me exactly the chance I deserved. I laid my heart out, showed her what I had to offer, and she decided that she didn't want it. And look, I haven't been there to see every single time you've asked Weiss out. But obviously, you never showed her that you have what she wants. That's either because you have it but you're hiding it, or because you straight up don't have it. Which one is it?"

Jaune seemed to actually give it real thought, but Artorias was paying more attention to Pyrrha. She was watching him in return, a curious look crossing her features, although when their eyes met she looked away.

"I have it," said Jaune, finally.

"Do you think you have it, or do you know you have it?"

"…I think I have it?" he said, quietly, as though he wasn't certain it was the right thing to say.

Artorias rolled his eyes. "Good answer. Ask her again, but do it properly. Be honest with her, put everything on the table, but if she turns you down again, _walk away_. Do you hear me?"

Jaune sighed, then nodded. "I'll only ask one more time," he said. "And I'll ask right. I promise."

Artorias nodded. "Good."

A weight seemed to fall from Jaune's shoulders. "Uh, I'm gonna go for that jog," he said, but before he departed down the stairs, he turned again to Artorias. "Hey, thanks for the talk."

"Don't mention it," he waved. "Seriously, if anyone asks, say it was Gough. I have a reputation to uphold."

Jaune laughed half-heartedly, waved to Pyrrha with a smile, then left.

Artorias knelt down, collecting his books and pens, but he didn't hear Pyrrha leave.

"Not gonna lie, I kinda want to see Jaune in a dress," Artorias said, not yet looking up.

She stayed silent, and the wolf turned around to see her nodding slowly.

"You think Weiss'll turn him down?" he asked.

"I hope not," she said. Artorias mulled her words over in his mind – her tone of voice, her pacing – and he found that she didn't seem to be lying.

"If that's the truth, you're a damn saint," he remarked. "But that's not the question."

Pyrrha looked up in thought. "No comment," she said.

"I think she'll turn him down," said Artorias. Jaune was a good kid, sure, but he'd already made a horrible impression on Weiss. It'd take more than a heartfelt confession to turn that around. "He'll hurt for a while, but he won't get over her unless he does this right. Just don't wait too long."

She blanched. "Am I that obvious?"

Artorias snorted. "Pyrrha, even a blind man could see that you want him to invite you to 'dance'." He wiggled his eyebrows and his ears at her suggestively, and she blushed a brighter red than her hair.

She closed her eyes and shook her head, as though purging the image from her mind. "Why are you helping… I don't even know which one of us you're helping."

"I'd say that watching him pine after Weiss got boring, but that's patently false. It's hilarious," he chuckled.

"You're not very nice about people behind their backs," she said accusingly. _Woah, chill._

"Depends on the person," he said. "Actually, you know what? I _did_ make fun of Gough once, so I guess everyone's fair game." She narrowed her eyes at him. "What? I take my humour where I can get it."

She glared at him for a few more seconds, then she looked away, her mouth forming a thin line. When her gaze returned to him, she wore a forced neutral expression. "I still want to know why you gave him that advice."

He shrugged. "There are a few reasons. I'm sure Weiss is pretty tired of it. I'm sure Jaune'll be in a much better place once he's over her. But the main one is that I know how demoralising it is for you." He relished the flash of surprise that crossed her face. He'd caught her off-guard.

"Way back when, I was in your position, not Jaune's. I wanted to ask Ciaran out, but every time I tried, well… I chickened out. We had a good thing going – a 'friends' thing. I didn't want to ruin it. Then I got that advice, and I asked her out, and she said no. But I'm glad I asked." Thankfully, she'd been kind enough not to tell the rest of the team. It had been a bit of a vulnerable time, for him.

"I'm sorry if we brought up bad memories."

"If I wasn't comfortable talking about it, I wouldn't have," he said dismissively. "Anyway, fast forward a few months, and Quelana asks me out. I don't think I'd have said yes if I were still pining over Ciaran," he said. "And, I mean, that was pretty good."

There was a hopeful smile on Pyrrha's face. "I'm glad for you, then."

Artorias let out a long, tired sigh. "I'm gonna go annoy C. You good?"

She nodded listlessly, and Artorias turned towards the door. "Good luck with Loverboy."

* * *

 **Some canon scenes in there, mostly to provide context. We're heading into the dance arc now, which has kind of ballooned out of control - so many characters with so many agendas to juggle. Gilderoy and Gough are shipping Artorias/Ciaran, but both of them are distracted by Smough's past, Ciaran is BroTP-ing Gilderoy and Artorias, Artorias still misses Quelana (not that the shippers know it)... and then there are the canon characters on top of all that.**

 **Would you believe me if I said that Artorias' love of mustard is gonna be a major plot point down the road?**

 **Next chapter - May 5th.**


	12. Chapter 11: Burning the Candle

**I intended to have this uploaded hours ago, I swear. It ballooned out of control a bit, though. Really, this could have been two chapters - but then, I don't know where I'd cut it. Probably a good thing, really. I don't want to drag the dance out over too many weeks.**

 **I digress. Enjoy.**

* * *

"If _I_ don't get doilies, _you_ don't get fog machines!"

Neptune pushed the door open; Sun and Artorias followed close behind.

"Your dance is gonna have fog machines?"

 _Nope,_ Artorias thought. _Get an extra pair of ears, Neptune._

"We were thinking about it," Weiss said, changing her tune awfully quickly. Artorias rolled his eyes and shared a look with Sun.

"That's pretty cool."

"You ladies all excited for dress-up?" Sun asked, gesturing enthusiastically.

Ruby made a despondent sound. "Yeah, right."

"Laugh all you want, I'll be turning heads tomorrow night," said Yang, a conceited smirk on her face.

"I'll be sure to laugh plenty," Artorias said dryly.

Yang's eyes flashed crimson for a second. "Shut it, Wolfy."

"What are you three wearing?" asked Weiss.

Sun made a face. "Uh, this?"

"Ignore him, for he knows not what he says," Neptune said, his face speaking of someone long-suffering.

"Hey, I may have moved to Mistral, but I grew up in Vacuo. It's not exactly a shirt and tie kinda place," Sun explained.

Yang raised an eyebrow at Artorias.

He shrugged. "He's not wrong, but he could do to put _some_ effort in." Gilderoy had a suit, he knew, and Artorias himself had a dress shirt and waistcoat for the occasion. Even Gough had managed to find formalwear in his size.

"I'll work on it," Neptune said, giving Sun a pointed look.

Sun ignored him. "So, uh, what does Blake think of all this? She still being all, you know, Blakey?"

"Obviously," drawled Weiss.

"I still can't think of a way to change her mind," Ruby complained.

"Guys. Trust me. Blake _will_ be at the dance tomorrow," said Yang confidently, moving for the door.

Sun tapped Artorias on the chest and leaned in. "Dude," he whispered, "she's doing the heartfelt speech thing, isn't she?"

Artorias fixed his eyes on the monkey faunus, forcing a bored expression on his face.

"Yeah, right, obvious, whatever."

Neptune laid a hand on Sun's shoulder. "C'mon, man. We'll see if any of Scarlet's clothes fit you."

"I'm a stowaway, not a sailor," Sun complained as he was led away.

/-/

"I thought I asked you to call me Morgan."

"Of course, Miss Nym," said Gilderoy, sipping at his tea. The woman before him rolled her eyes, but didn't correct him again.

"It's nice to finally meet you," she said. "I've heard about you."

"From Artorias? Nothing too bad, I hope?"

"Not all of it's positive."

"Naturally."

"But he considers you to be a friend. I'm surprised he's not here to introduce you, actually. He seemed to want me to meet the team."

"I'm here to talk about him, actually," said Gilderoy. "Don't worry, he's fine," he said, seeing her expression turn to worry. "I… look, it's a little complicated. It sounds like you're aware that my friendship with Artorias is a little strained. I want to try to mend the rift, a little. Or substitute it, perhaps – I'm not sure."

"You've lost me."

"He and Ciaran are close," he explained. "I want to pair them up."

"You're playing matchmaker?"

"If the cards fall that way, yes. The fact of the matter is that Ciaran is a better friend for Artorias than I have ever been, and he is the same for her, and I don't want to hold them back from whatever it is they have."

Morgan sipped at her coffee. "And you're not content with simply letting the cards fall?"

"It's not that simple," he said. "I'm not blind. Ciaran and Gough are always torn when Artorias and I fight." It had been a little better since they'd come to Vale, for sure – but Gilderoy knew that every time they walked away, they only made the next fight worse.

"So you're encouraging Ciaran to take Artorias' side."

"No," he said. "I want him to have a different outlet, and hopefully one he's less argument-prone with."

"You want them to spend more time together."

"Essentially, yes."

She nodded. "I'll trust your judgement. But, just so you know – I think Artorias really does appreciate you."

"I'm sure he'd get bored if he couldn't antagonise me occasionally," Gilderoy quipped.

She chuckled lightly. "How can I help?"

"I have it on good authority that Ciaran needs to go to Vale later today. If you were to ask to meet with Artorias – and to meet his team – he'd invite her along. Gough and I can make ourselves busy back at Beacon."

"Sounds a little underhanded," she frowned. "And I wouldn't mind meeting Gough."

"Everyone could use a Gough in their life," Gilderoy admitted. "But he's a little distracted right now. Personal issues."

"Of course."

"You'll help, then?"

Morgan nodded. "Of course. So – tell me about Team GWIN. I'd like your perspective."

"There's not much to it. Not much you don't know, I suppose. Gough's the mediator, Ciaran's the academic, Artorias is insufferable, and I'm – well, I'm probably insufferable to him, too."

"So I hear," she mused. "What have you all achieved?"

"I'm not sure I follow."

"Trainees get sent out on missions, don't they? Tell me about Quill."

"I'm sorry?" That Morgan knew about the Quill conspiracy came as a surprise – outside of each kingdoms' security details assigned to Amity for the last tournament, very few were even aware of it.

"Arthur Quill. Artorias skirted around that story."

"It wasn't an official mission," Gilderoy hedged. "I assume he has his reasons."

"I'm sure there is a reason," she acknowledged, "but I don't believe it's a good one. Please – I want to know what happened."

Gilderoy held her gaze for a moment, considering it. Arthur Quill – the man Artorias had killed. It was one of the few topics Artorias shied away from.

But then – if Morgan knew the name, surely she knew at least the basics of what had happened. It was fair that she'd be worried about her son, even if it had happened almost two years ago.

Gilderoy nodded. She had a right to know.

"I don't know too much," he admitted. "I wasn't involved." That had been some of the worst of his fighting with Artorias – just after he'd gotten together with Smough. He'd only found out about it from Gough a few months after the incident.

"Sun told me he tipped off Artorias," said Morgan.

"That's my understanding too." He didn't know how Sun found out, of course – but the faunus was a social butterfly. It didn't surprise him. Seeing as he'd still only been at a preliminary combat school – Sunlight Academy, to be precise – Sun hadn't involved himself any further.

"Artorias took the claim seriously – or, as seriously as he takes anything – and investigated. He wasn't the only one – there was a member of Atlas' security delegation on the trail as well. They teamed up, tracked the White Fang to their base of operations, then called up Ciaran and Gough for backup and stormed the place."

"And Quill was…"

"I believe he was leading the White Fang cell – but I'm no expert on their hierarchy."

"What happened to him?"

Gilderoy pursed his lips. "Artorias killed him. Or so I hear."

Her breath hitched. "Are you sure?"

"I wasn't there."

Morgan nodded. "I understand. I'll ask him more later."

"He doesn't like talking about it."

"I'll ask him more when I see him," she repeated, steel in her eyes.

Gilderoy pursed his lips, but he inclined his head in acknowledgement. "Of course."

/-/

"Blue? Really? You wear blue _all_ the time."

"It looks good on me."

"True, but if you're going blue, you might as well wear your normal dress and save lien."

"Combat skirt," Ciaran corrected, rolling her eyes. "Alright, I'll find something else. Wait here."

It had been a surprise to hear from his mother, although not an unwelcome one. He hadn't wanted to talk about Arthur Quill with her, and so Artorias had been avoiding his mother. It would be a lie to say that he didn't feel guilty over it. But at least she wouldn't ask about Quill with Ciaran there, right?

That he'd managed to convince Ciaran to come had been a stroke of luck. She was heading to Vale anyway to get a dress for the dance. He'd asked Gilderoy to come as well, per his mother's request, but he'd declined. He hadn't asked Gough, knowing that the taller man had more than enough to worry about.

"How about this one?"

"It's a dance, not a funeral."

Ciaran huffed and stormed off deeper into the store again.

And now he was helping Ciaran choose a dress for the dance. He was more than happy to help, of course – but the girl didn't have much in the way of a fashion sense beyond her blue-dress comfort zone.

 _Combat skirt._ He imagined her irritably correcting him again, and chuckled to himself.

Not that Artorias thought himself to be particularly fashionable either. Gough, perhaps, had a better eye for such things. Ironically, the man could barely find clothes in his size.

"Eh?" Ciaran returned, holding up a long evening gown. The fabric was grey, but it caught the light in a way that made it shimmer like liquid silver.

"You gonna try it on?"

"You're not going to tell me it's not worth it?"

"Nope," he said, popping the 'p'. "You might have a winner there."

She peered at him suspiciously.

"Do I have something on my face?"

She snorted and shook her head, a small smile on her face. "I'll be right back," she said, moving towards the fitting room.

/-/

"Ren, I'm just gonna come out and say it. You are one of my best friends," said Jaune. And he meant it, too, he really did. He wasn't just saying it to butter the shorter boy up for advice.

Okay, he was saying it to butter Ren up. But he still meant it.

"These past few months, I feel like we've really bonded. Even though you don't say much. I mean, you're _really_ quiet." Well, he wasn't as quiet as Blake, at least. "To be perfectly honest I don't know much about you personally, but darn it, I consider you to be the brother I never had!"

And Jaune knew _all_ about being a brother. He had seven sisters, after all, and he was a great brother to them.

Aside from the running away part.

But regardless, Ren was everything he wanted in a brother, and everything he felt his sisters saw in him as a brother. So, he was being truthful.

 _You're also buttering him up._

"And I you," said Ren, after a brief pause. _Thank god._

"Which is why I want your help with… well, words. I'm not very good with them."

"You've lost me."

"I – look, I'm going to ask Weiss out again, and it's going to be the – you know, the big 'this is it' ask. So I want to ask well, you know? Anyway, I was hoping that you could tell me how you and Nora-"

"Uh, um, well-"

"Ahem, heh, we're not actually… _together-_ together," Nora said, filling in for Ren. _Oh, right, of course, I knew that – NORA!_

"Nora I said _headphones on!"_

"Oop!" the ginger girl scrambled to cover her ears again.

"Jaune," said Ren, apparently having recovered his composure, "I'm still not sure I understand what you mean."

"I… want her to know how I feel. And I want her to focus on that, just that, not a guitar or a pickup line or a – well, or an anything really. Maybe something small? I don't know."

"You want to be honest."

"Exactly!" Jaune said. "I just want to work out how I want to say it before I'm actually saying it, you know? Just… make sense of it all so I don't screw it up again."

"My door is open to you," said Ren. "Talk freely and openly."

Jaune breathed deeply. _Okay, here goes. Just… let it out._ "I… I'm head over heels for her. I know she's cold, but she's also incredible. She's smart, and she's graceful, and she's talented – have you heard her sing? But, you know, those are reasons _why_ I have feelings for her, but they don't really stand for my feelings, right?"

"Jaune, those _are_ your feelings." That was Pyrrha's voice – Jaune looked up from his hands, and there she was, standing in the doorway. "Doesn't the way you understand someone as a person represent your feelings for them?"

Jaune sighed. "I mean, I guess you're right, but I mean, it's just a list of things about her she probably already knows, you know? I want her to know how she makes me feel. And like I said, I'm not super good with words – I just feel like – when I see her, I can hear my pulse in my head, and it feels like I've just run a thousand miles and it's tiring but it's also..."

"Exhilarating?" suggested Pyrrha. Jaune nodded.

"Yeah. Exhilarating."

"I think you just found your words," said Ren.

"…right." Jaune jumped to his feet, newly filled with determination. "Thanks Pyrrha! Good talk, Ren!"

/-/

The café was a small, quiet place: a veritable hole-in-the-wall if Ciaran had ever seen one. The storefront took up little space – just a single door that was narrower than most, and one open window, low enough for those seated by it to look outside without straining.

There was a smell to the place as well. A pleasant aroma of fresh coffee with just a hint of woodsmoke. Ciaran breathed deeply as she entered, letting it wash over her.

A nice place indeed.

"Good morning!" greeted the man behind the counter. Something about him seemed familiar, though Ciaran couldn't quite place it. His blond hair was cropped close to his head, and though he was dressed in what must have been the café's uniform, there was a crystal hanging around his neck. At first glance, it looked like uncut dust, but Ciaran noticed that it was opaque, unlike any dust she'd ever seen.

"Morning," Ciaran said in return. "Could I get a cup of tea, please? Valean breakfast."

"Of course," said the man, with a bright smile. "And…?"

"Just the same, thanks," said Artorias.

"Won't be a minute."

Artorias and Ciaran sat down at a table, checking the time – they still had about ten minutes before Morgan was supposed to arrive.

"You looking forward to the dance?"

"Enough to spend money on a dress," Ciaran said, her eyes flitting to her bag, which she'd carelessly thrown onto the seat next to her.

"And yet you don't seem so enthused."

"It's just – nothing, never mind. I've got a lot on my mind is all." And most of it was about the dance, in fact. Artorias was going alone; that made things a little easier. But making him and Gilderoy talk to each other?

She cast her mind back to her notebook. She was working on it. It'd work out. It'd be fine.

Artorias nodded.

"Sorry to intrude – you're talking about the Beacon dance, correct?" The blond employee came over, setting the tea down in front of them.

"Yup," said Artorias, popping the 'p'. Ciaran nodded in agreement, adding a small spoon of sugar to her drink and stirring it in.

"Ah, I thought I recognised you," said the blond man. "I'm Solaire. Second year from Atlas."

"Ciaran, third year Shade," said Ciaran simply. Solaire offered her a hand; she took it warily and he shook vigorously, a warm smile on his face.

"I'm Artorias, the Wolf-"

"Wolfy, no," she said.

Artorias rolled his eyes at her. "You're from Atlas?" he asked, addressing Solaire again. "Why would you get a job in Vale?"

Solaire shrugged. "I just wanted to be of service. Speaking of which: can I get you anything else?"

"We're waiting for someone – perhaps when she arrives, but for now we're fine." said Ciaran.

"The more the merrier, of course. Well, I'll leave you to it then."

"Thanks, Solaire," Artorias said.

"Any time," the cheery waiter responded, making his way over to another table and humming a tune to himself.

"So, not the dance – how about missions?" Artorias asked, drumming the fingers of his right hand on the table. Her eyes were drawn to the copper signet ring on the index finger of that hand. He'd had it for as long as they'd known each other, and he would sometimes fidget with it, perhaps without even realising.

It seemed important to him, though he'd never divulged why.

"Ciaran?"

She collected her thoughts. "Hmm?"

"The mission," Artorias prompted, leaning forwards in his chair.

"We haven't gotten it yet," she said.

"Duh," Artorias said. Ciaran tilted her head, adopting a thoroughly unimpressed look. "What kind of mission do you think we should pick?"

"Shouldn't we wait until we're with the others?"

"It's not like we're deciding once and for all what we're doing," he said. "Just throwing ideas into the mix. Whaddaya reckon? Something quiet and laid back? Or guns-blazing Grimm-destroying fun?"

"You already have something in mind, don't you?" It seemed obvious now that she thought to look for it – the obnoxious smirk that said he had some probably-pointless agenda of his own.

"I'm glad you asked." His smirk grew considerably less subtle. "Somewhere between doing homework and participating in high speed chases with giant robots, we – that is to say, Team RWBY, Neptune, Sun, and myself – got a few leads."

"Leads on what?"

"Gods only know. There's a White Fang base somewhere outside the city to the south-east. If there's a mission there, we're taking it."

"First and second years choose missions before we do."

"I know. My money's on Team RWBY gobbling up any missions in the area. Which is why there's a backup plan – a mission somewhere in the city."

"The Yarrow thing?"

"The Yarrow thing," he confirmed.

"What if those aren't options?"

"Then we flip a coin."

"There'll be more than two options."

"We'll flip all the coins."

"That doesn't work."

"You're obviously not trying hard enough, then."

She rolled her eyes and let out a long-suffering sigh. "It's not like you'd put the effort in to make it work."

"To prove you wrong? I absolutely would."

"I hope I'm not interrupting." Ciaran looked up – pulling up a chair was a short woman, perhaps in her mid-forties.

"Hey Mum," said Artorias.

Ciaran couldn't see the resemblance, no matter how hard she tried.

"Sorry I'm late," Artorias' mother said, taking a seat.

"Yes, we're both very disappointed in you," Artorias teased. The woman ignored him, turning instead to Ciaran. And there – finally, a resemblance. Her eyes looked just like her son's.

"You must be Ciaran?"

Ciaran nodded, shaking her hand when it was offered.

"Morgan," said Morgan. "I bore the horrible burden of raising him," she said, jerking a thumb towards Artorias with a well-meaning smile.

"You wound me."

"It's nice to meet you," Ciaran finally choked out.

She'd almost forgotten what it was like to meet new people – _new_ new people, rather. It had been easy with Team RWBY – perhaps because they were close to her own age, but then, it had taken a while for her to accustom to her own team when they'd first met. Maybe it was something in Team RWBY's dynamic – the innocence of Ruby gave her somebody she never felt she could disappoint, while the boisterousness of Yang filled in the gaps in conversation. It also didn't hurt that Weiss wasn't too much unlike her sister, who Ciaran was at least a little familiar with.

And she still hadn't met Blake. Huh.

Regardless, it all came back in a wave – the dry mouth, the rapid pulse, the uncertainty. Ciaran wasn't sure where to rest her hands. She wasn't sure where to look. She wasn't sure how to do anything.

Desperately, she looked to Artorias for help.

"Sorry I couldn't get the rest of the team," Artorias said. "Gilderoy was… I dunno, just didn't seem that interested. And I didn't want to ask Gough. He's dealing with some stuff right now."

"Oh, it's fine," said Morgan. "So, Ciaran – how did you two first meet?"

 _Crap._ "There was – we got in a fight." _Nice one, C._ "I mean, we all arrived at Shade, and the two of us kinda got in a fight, but it wasn't that bad, then we all made up five minutes later." _Smooth._

It occurred to Ciaran that the voice berating her in her head sounded very much like Artorias.

Morgan seemed to buy the story though – which she should, seeing as it was true, if a little vague on the details. "You never picked fights before you went to Vacuo, Arty," said Morgan.

"About that…"

"Just let me have this," she said.

"Ah, this must be the company – I'll be with you again in a moment," said Solaire, waltzing past with hands full of plates.

Morgan turned to Artorias. "Do you know him?"

"Kinda? I mean, he got us the tea. And apparently he's from Atlas. The school, not the kingdom."

"And he has a job in Vale?"

"That's what I said," Artorias shrugged. "I think he's cool."

"Yeah," Ciaran agreed lamely, thinking that she should at least contribute something to the conversation.

"Right," said Solaire. He seemed a little disheveled as he came back to their table, but still he wore a smile on his face. "Can I get you anything?"

"Coffee, thanks."

"Water," Ciaran said quietly. It seemed at first that she'd been too quiet for him to hear, but then, just as she was about to ask again – more politely, and louder, she saw him wink at her and tilt the pad ever so slightly towards her. And, indeed, water was written down. A few more words were exchanged to confirm with Solaire that yes, that was all, and then he was off again.

From there, they engaged in small talk – mostly about Shade, and a little about Beacon. Artorias carried the conversation well – whether because he was naturally social or because he noticed Ciaran's discomfort, she couldn't rightly say. Still, she chipped in where it seemed appropriate.

"Moral of the story is that parasols are awesome, and anyone using one is about ten times more badass than I'll ever be," Artorias finished.

"You're selling yourself short."

"If only. If I were shorter, I'd be that much closer to total badassdom. The only other things I'd need are a food-based colour scheme and a parasol of my own."

Morgan chuckled a little to herself, shaking her head. "You don't have to be short to use a parasol, Arty."

"Well, no, but come _on._ Have you ever seen a tall person with a parasol?"

"This Neo girl is the first I've even _heard_ of somebody using a parasol."

He opened his mouth – then paused, held up a finger, and thought about it. Finally, he said, "that's fair."

Morgan laughed again. Ciaran, her glass of water finished, sipped at the tea she'd abandoned earlier. It had gone lukewarm – a little too cold for her liking, but not yet disgusting.

"What else have you gotten yourself into?" Morgan asked.

Artorias paused, his mouth contorting as he thought. "I think that's just about it, yep, nothing else."

"Arty-"

"Nope, nothing else. I've told you about the time Gough got drunk?" He hadn't – or, at least, he hadn't today. Ciaran smiled at the memory – it had turned out that Gough was a very friendly drunk, going around telling everyone that he loved them. Even Professor Brim.

"Quill, Artorias," said Morgan.

"I don't want to talk about it," he said, shrugging nonchalantly. He raised his mug halfway to his lips before looking down and seeming to realise it was empty.

"I do, Artorias."

"Here? Really?"

"Does it matter? It shouldn't be a big deal."

"It's not a big deal. In fact, it's not any deal. It's a non-deal. An ex-deal. An un-deal."

Ciaran knew it was a touchy subject for the wolf faunus – and that alone made it at least something of a deal. Artorias was willing to cross a lot of lines in the name of (bad) humour. But Quill was one of the few subjects he'd never touched like that.

"Arty, you took his life."

"I know what I did, Mum. It was two years ago."

"Do you know what happened?" Morgan turned to Ciaran, and suddenly her mouth felt dry once again.

"I was there," she said shortly. She hadn't seen it happen herself – Ciaran and Gough had been left to round up the White Fang grunts while Winter and Artorias had chased Quill.

"What happened?"

"Don't," Artorias said. "Don't make something out of this. It was a long time ago."

"I'm worried about you, Arty."

"You don't have to be."

"I think I do. You can't just brush him aside. Don't you want me to hear it from you?"

"Have you met Winter?"

"Don't try to distract me."

Artorias rubbed his temple with his right hand. "Have you met Winter?" he repeated, slower this time.

"Why would I have?"

"Sun didn't know I killed Quill. Who told you?"

"It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me. Who told you?"

"It doesn't matter."

"It was Ornstein, wasn't it?" Artorias shook his head. "Can't be Winter, probably not Gough, and I doubt you've had a chat with dear old Arthur recently."

Ciaran shook her head, not trusting herself to speak. There was something in Artorias' eyes that shook her to her core.

"Arty-"

"It's my life, Mum," he said, a pained expression on his face. "I can make my own choices. I can deal with the consequences."

"He's the one dealing with the-"

Ciaran stood then, practically shooting to her feet. "I don't think – I need to go," she stammered out.

Not waiting for a response, she grabbed her bag and walked out of the café.

/-/

"You're Gilderoy, right?"

Gilderoy Ornstein looked up from his book – something he was hardly even reading anyway. Two girls stood before him – one in a red hood, the other with bright orange hair wearing green.

"That's me."

"From Team GWIN?"

"You're Ruby, I take it."

Ruby nodded.

"Gough's busy. And Artorias and Ciaran are-"

"Actually, we kinda wanted to talk to you," said Ruby.

"Me?"

"Uh, yeah," said Ruby.

Gilderoy shrugged and gestured for them to sit. They did so. Ruby glanced to the ginger girl.

"Hello?" said the ginger girl, more as a question than anything else.

Gilderoy pursed his lips. He had the distinct feeling he was going to regret this. "Hi," he said.

"Salut-" began the ginger, before cutting herself off. "What I meant to say is, my name is Penny," she corrected herself. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise," said Gilderoy.

Penny glanced at Ruby as though for encouragement. The girl in the red hood offered a thumbs-up. "I'm here from Atlas Academy!" said Penny, more cheerfully this time.

"Shade," offered Gilderoy. He paused for a second, feeling his scroll buzz in his pocket. He held up a finger to indicate that they should give him a moment, and he checked it, expected a message from Gough.

But instead, it was a message from Ciaran – or, rather, a screenshot of a message that Artorias had sent to Ciaran.

 _Where is Gil?_

A brief second later came another message.

 _He's probably angry._

A weight settled in the pit of his stomach. Clearly something had gone wrong. Hopefully it was just a misunderstanding – Gil only wanted to make them spend time together, nothing more, nothing less.

Okay, secretly he'd hoped for more. But he hadn't planned for more.

"Is something wrong?" Penny asked.

"Nothing," said Gilderoy. "I just need a moment."

He weighed his options. Gough had asked for privacy to call Smough – hence the reason Gilderoy was in the library in the first place. He could ignore Ciaran's message, and Artorias would doubtless check the dorm first, interrupting Gough.

That wasn't acceptable.

With a sigh, Gilderoy sent Ciaran a message. _Library._

"Right – where were we?"

"I was asking if something was wrong and you said you needed a moment," Penny recounted.

"Right." That hardly helped him pick up the thread of the already threadbare conversation.

"So…" Ruby prompted. "How about your team?"

"My team?"

"Yeah! I mean, I think my team's pretty awesome, and Penny… yeah, Penny's team, but, uh – what do you think of yours? Don't you and Wolfy fight a lot?"

 _Oh, the irony._

"Not so much recently," he said, inwardly cringing at his own words.

"I can't imagine fighting with my team," Penny said. "We're not very good friends, but I wouldn't want to hurt them at all."

"Artorias and I are friends," Gilderoy corrected, wincing again.

"Do friends fight?"

"Sometimes."

"Ruby, should we have a fight?"

"What – Penny, no!"

"So it's not a requirement of friendship?"

"Just a perk, I'm afraid."

The voice came from over Gilderoy's shoulder. Quiet, but stern. A tone that he wasn't used to hearing from such a voice – but one he recognised nonetheless.

He didn't turn to look.

"Are you alright, Artorias the Wolf Knight?"

"Penny, you don't have to-"

"Peachy," said Artorias.

"Peachy?" asked Penny.

"Fuzzy, soft, and sweet," explained Artorias.

"I see," said Penny.

"Penny, I think we should go," Ruby whispered.

"Are they going to have a friends-fight?"

Gilderoy didn't hear Ruby's response.

"Why'd you do it?"

The words rolled off Artorias' tongue, downwards to where Gilderoy sat frozen in his seat. He could almost feel a weight holding him down.

Artorias circled around the table. Two eyes, a tumultuous blue, were set in a face of stone.

"I wanted what's best for the team."

"What?"

"I'm trying to bring us together." Even if it might have drawn the lines a little more cleanly, at least they'd have all known where they stood.

"You don't even know, do you?"

It wasn't about him and Ciaran? "I don't think so, no."

"Quill, Ornstein."

"I didn't think it'd be a big deal."

The change was tangible, sudden, electrifying. A boulder shaped like a fist came crashing down onto the table. "It wasn't," growled Artorias. "Not until you made it one."

"Didn't Sun tell her about it too?"

"Nothing like that. Nothing that would make her – gods, nothing like that."

"I'm sorry-"

"It's a bit late for that now, isn't it?" Artorias turned his face away, his neck cracking as he did so, and massaged the bridge of his nose with one hand. The other, still clenched against the table, quaked erratically, the crown of knuckles whitening from the strain.

"Artorias, if this is eating at you, you need to-"

"Do what? Talk to someone? Fuck off, Ornstein – I'm fine – I don't regret it. It – you know what? It felt- I did what I had to do, and if you or anyone else thinks I should feel guilty about it you can go to whatever hell you believe in!"

"You feel-"

"Don't tell me how I feel. Actually – say it. Show me how wrong you are."

"You do feel guilty, don't you?"

The fist came crashing down again, putting a hole through the table.

"Artorias!"

Artorias wasn't listening, instead looking at his hand, uninjured due to aura. He clenched it into a fist again, then shut his eyes. His lips parted, and from the fissure emerged a sigh.

"It felt good," he muttered. He was so quiet that Gil strained to hear it.

Then, as quickly as he'd come, he left.

From the other side of the library, Penny had a question: "Is it a friendship-fighting ritual to damage furniture?"

/-/

Jaune stopped at a corner, white rose in hand. He felt a little stupid with it – odd, given all the other stupid things he'd done to ask out Weiss – but it also seemed appropriate. Something small. A tiny gesture to accompany heavy, meaningful words.

 _You can do this. You've already done it; you just have to do it again._

"Neptune!"

 _That's Weiss' voice!_

 _Oh, right, Neptune's here._

"Oh, hey, what's up?"

 _Do you think you have it, or do you know you have it?_

"I know this is a little… unorthodox, but I wanted to ask you something. Would you like to accompany me to the dance tomorrow?"

 _Neptune has it._

"I – uh, Weiss, look, I like you. You're pretty cool, you know?"

How _dare_ he. Weiss was more than 'pretty cool' _._ She was amazing.

"Weiss… I'd like to, but I can't."

Jaune felt anger rising up within him; Weiss Schnee asked _Neptune_ to the dance, and he had the _gall_ to-

"Oh…" she sounded so despondent that such a little syllable shook Jaune to his core, his rage forgotten. That was how _he_ felt, every time she turned him down. "I- I think I understand."

"I'm... sorry, Weiss."

"So am I," she murmured quietly, so Jaune's ears strained to pick it up.

Footsteps walked away, and Jaune poked his head around the corner. Weiss was still there, just… standing. Crushed.

 _I don't have it._

He closed his eyes for a second, steeling his resolve. He took a deep breath, then he turned the corner.

"Hey, Weiss."

She looked up at his approach. "Not now, Jaune."

"I'm not here to ask you out again," he said, honestly.

"The rose says otherwise."

He looked down at his hands. _Right. The rose._

"Well, I _was_ going to ask you to the dance," he admitted. "It was gonna involve a real big emotional speech from the heart, and probably some crying too. The crying would have been me, heh." He laughed sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head. Weiss was still eyeing him warily.

"I heard you and Neptune. I promise I wasn't eavesdropping on purpose, but you look like you need a friend."

"And you think we're friends?"

"Yup," said Jaune, popping the 'p'. "Not _great_ friends or anything, but I'm pretty sure you know me pretty well, and I'm pretty sure I know you at least a bit. That counts as friendship, right?"

Her eyes dropped down to the rose. He offered it to her, but she didn't take it.

"This isn't some ridiculous scheme?"

"Nah," said Jaune. "I- I think I'm done with all that."

There was a sharp intake of breath – on a normal human being, Jaune would have called it a snort, but Weiss was too dignified for such things. "What makes you say that? It's not like I'm spoken for," she said bitterly.

"If you're saying you're fine with me asking you out every other week, sure, I'll keep it up," Jaune chuckled. "It's not because of Neptune. I… got some advice. A lot of advice, actually."

"You were still planning on asking me to the dance not two minutes ago."

"That was the advice," he said. "Ask you out, and do it right. That, and give up if you said no again."

"What do you mean, do it right?"

Jaune recalled Artorias' words. "Well, I have a crush on you – no secret, right? Which means I see something in you that makes me want to be with you. But you don't see anything in me that makes you feel the same, which is either because it's there but I hide it, or because it just… isn't there. So, asking right meant to show you everything I was hiding. To… to be honest."

"And what were you hiding?"

"I don't think I was hiding anything, now. Well, nothing that would change your mind."

"Jaune," she said, and for the first time she looked him the eye and Jaune didn't see pity, or anger, or irritation. She reached out a hand for the rose, and Jaune gave it to her. "Tell me. Please."

Jauen made to shake his head, but her voice echoed somewhere in his thoughts – that single, pained, "Oh," she'd said when Neptune had turned her down.

He looked down, cleared his throat, gathered himself, then looked back up. "Weiss Schnee, I think you're an incredible person. You're smart, you're graceful, and you have a wonderful voice." A wistful half-smile was on her face, and Jaune pressed on. "And you're cold. Untouchable, in a way – yet here you are. And when I'm around you, I can hear my heart beating in my head, and I'm out of breath like I've run a thousand miles, and it's _exhausting_ , let me tell you – but it's exhilarating too."

There was a long pause. Weiss' eyes were closed, but he could almost see the thoughts whirling around in her head.

Finally, she spoke. "Thank you, Jaune." She'd never thanked him like that before – without any sarcasm, without a scathing, hidden barb tacked on. "That's… very kind of you."

Not knowing what else to do, he shrugged.

"All that, and you're giving up?"

"Would you rather I didn't?"

"No," she said hurriedly. "But… I guess it was good advice. If you're finally over it."

Over it? Jaune wasn't so sure about that. But done? Certainly.

She held the flower to her nose, breathing deeply. "Bye, Jaune," she said.

Jaune shut his eyes. He didn't want to see her walk away.

/-/

It felt good to move.

Artorias' fists slammed again and again into the punching bag. He knew he wasn't training very well – his blows too aggressive, lacking control – but the point of the exercise wasn't exactly to refine his skills.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registered that the door to the training room had been opened. But he didn't look to see who had come in. Probably Ciaran – or perhaps Gough, if he wasn't still worrying about his brother.

But then there was a rasp of steel, of a blade being drawn, and he knew it wasn't either of them – Ciaran was never so loud, and Gough didn't exactly carry anything resembling a sword.

He breathed deeply and steadied the punching bag, then wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm.

He felt a little better, truth be told, though he had no desire to talk it out with Gilderoy just yet. Violence was therapeutic – it just wasn't a good idea to take it out on other people.

Mostly.

He took another deep breath, allowing a calm to settle over him, and turned to look at the newcomer.

It was Jaune. He was doing some drill or other, doubtless taught to him by Pyrrha – sequences of basic strikes. Artorias shrugged and moved over to the bleachers to watch.

Jaune's form wasn't great. Not that Artorias was a teacher or a drillmaster or anything – but it was obvious even to him that Jaune's movements were suited more to a shorter weapon, to a lighter shield. He held his shield a little too low, and he didn't use the weight of his blade to its full potential, nor all the tools at his disposal.

"I thought you trained with Pyrrha," Artorias called, in a brief break between drills.

Jaune hardly glanced at him. "I like to get some practice in," he said. "And… I need to blow off some steam."

Artorias nodded. "How'd it go?"

Jaune swung a few more times, his face a vision of concentration. "I didn't ask."

"Good."

"Good?"

"Good," he repeated.

Jaune's weapons slumped to his side. "I guess so."

"Want to talk about it?"

"I think I'm good."

"Good?" Artorias mocked. Jaune just looked at him oddly, and the wolf waved him off.

"Your form is sloppy," he pointed out, changing the topic.

"Huh?"

"Stance, form, whatever, all that. It's not suited for your kind of weaponry."

"But Pyrrha-"

"Taught you as she was taught – or so I assume. For a shorter sword and for a smaller shield." Artorias jumped to his feet, grabbing his sword from where it lay next to him.

"I've improved."

"No surprise. It'll work for you, but you won't get much further with it. Now," said Artorias, walking over to the duelling area, "what weapons do you have?"

"Uh, a sword and shield?"

"Try again," Artorias said.

"…sword and shield?"

Artorias rolled his eyes and dashed forward, bringing a powerful left-handed punch to bear against the blond. Jaune brought his shield up just in time, although the force of the blow sent him skidding backwards.

"Good," Artorias said. "Tell me what I just did."

"You punched me."

"I used my gauntlet as a weapon. What weapons do you have, Jaune?"

He could pinpoint the moment it clicked for the younger boy. "A sword, a shield, and a sheath."

"There we go," he said. "With a little practice, you can use that to deflect a blow just as well as your shield anyway. But you can also smack people with it. That's the fun part."

"Don't I need to practice with a shield anyway?"

"Not my job to fix bad habits," Artorias shrugged. Maybe – just _maybe_ – if Jaune asked him, he'd put in the time to help out on that account. "You're gonna learn to use that sheath, though. Experience is the best teacher and all that, so here's the deal. We spar, reset on knockdown, and if I see you turn that thing back into a shield I'm taking you up to the roof to test your landing strategy."

"I didn't volunteer for this."

"Look, I want to blow off steam too," he admitted. "Indulge me? You'll get something out of it too, I promise."

"What happened with you?"

"Nothing you need to worry about. Ready?"

"Fine. But-"

Artorias rolled his eyes and unleashed a flurry of attacks. Caught off-guard, Jaune took the first blow standing, before recovering his wits and diving to the side. Coming to his feet, he seemed a little lost without a shield to hide behind, but with no small effort, he managed to parry the next few strikes with his sword. Artorias began aiming for holes in the boy's defenses, putting him on the back foot.

"Use the sheath," he commanded, lunging past Jaune's guard.

The blond twisted awkwardly to dodge the strike, and Artorias capitalized with a leg sweep. To his surprise, the boy managed to dance over his leg, spinning mid-air and chambering a counter-attack. Artorias batted the blade away easily with his left hand, but was thrown off balance when the heavy sheath slammed into his overextended arm.

He moved with the momentum, falling into a roll and alighting on his feet not a moment later. Jaune's sword was already poised to strike, and he brought it crashing down towards the wolf. Artorias parried Jaune's sword with his own, then caught the sheath with his left hand as it came flying towards his face. With it, he pulled Jaune in close and slammed the pommel of his own weapon into the boy's chest, sending the blond sprawling to the ground.

"Better," he said, offering a hand. "Again."

/-/

 _Dear Priscilla,_

 _Does Father read these before you? I guess we'll find out, won't we?_

 _I leave for Mistral tomorrow, but this morning the Witch brought me to Forever Fall. It's a rare place, completely untamed by humanity. Grimm still roam there._

 _It wasn't an issue of course, or I wouldn't be able to write this. They're not particularly old or dangerous Grimm._

 _She asked me to call her by name, though I'm not sure I'm comfortable with that – even Father asks us to call him Lord in public. She had a lot to say about him, too._

 _He still hoards precious pearls, doesn't he? I've always thought it a strange obsession, perhaps even greedy, but I've never thought it a particularly bad thing. He is not a thief, nor a murderer, nor a con-artist._

 _Ironic, I suppose._

 _I digress. It's interesting to see another perspective, though Salem's perspective is surely coloured. I doubt I'll ever know what their history is together. I'm glad she hasn't let it ruin our friendship, though. I wouldn't mind spending more time in Vale. Perhaps you could join us next time._

 _Your brother._

 _I love you, little Yorshka._

* * *

 **Some things change, some things say the same. Jaune still goes to Ren for advice, though it's a little different. Jaune still tries to ask out Weiss, but this time sticks around for the aftermath. And Weiss still gets turned down by Neptune. But the dance aint over yet.**

 **This got redrafted about a million times. Something that I desperately wish I could have fit in was Neptune asking people to sign a petition to make Sun wear a tie. A damn shame that got cut, but it just didn't fit.**

 **Next chapter - May 12th.**


	13. Chapter 12: Dance Dance Infiltration

The next morning, Yang was pleasantly surprised to see that, rather than falling asleep in front of a terminal at the library (as she'd done quite frequently since their last run-in with Torchwick), Blake had returned to the dorm that night. What's more, she was sleeping in. Yang doubted that Blake had much choice in the matter – she'd looked so exhausted the other day that Yang had half expected the faunus to fall asleep during their little heart-to-heart.

Without a word, Ruby, Weiss, and Yang all agreed not to wake her, and together they slipped into the corridor as quietly as they could, making their way towards the cafeteria for breakfast.

"What did you say to her?" Ruby asked, heaping strawberries onto her cereal.

"Eh, nothing you need to worry about," Yang said. She ruffled her sister's hair, causing Ruby to blush with embarrassment.

" _Yaaaang,_ " she complained.

The actual consumption-of-food part of breakfast was a muted affair that day. Ruby dug in to her breakfast with gusto, devouring it in barely a minute before departing, saying she wanted to check on Blake. Weiss kept to herself, hardly picking at her food.

"You alright, Weiss-cream?"

"I'm fine."

"Sure," said Yang. Unless she got really bad – like Blake had – Yang wouldn't push her.

"So," said Yang, gnawing at a rasher of bacon, "you going with anyone to the dance?"

Weiss looked up, apparently startled out of her stupor. "I, well, we've got too much going on to care about boys, Yang. Right?"

"Don't ask me," Yang said.

"Right," she said. _Man, she's really out of it,_ Yang thought, watching Weiss go back to pushing her scrambled eggs aimlessly about her plate.

"Weiss-"

"What?" The heiress snapped, looking up again. _Woah, chill out, Ice Queen._

"We've got to get to the hall today. There's some last-minute stuff we've gotta sort out."

"…of course," said Weiss. Apparently, the offer of a job to focus on was enough to snap her out of it. Yang wouldn't say that Weiss wolfed her food down – the word implied a lack of dignity after all – but Weiss certainly ate quickly.

/-/

The kick of the gun's recoil sent a satisfying shock running along Ciaran's arm. Ruby's advice was good – guns _were_ fun. She could recall the first time she'd ever held one, years and years ago. She hadn't liked them much back then.

But now? Oh, this thing was fun.

She didn't have to look too closely to see that all six of her shots were on target. It hadn't taken long to get used to the revolver, though she suspected she'd be a little less accurate in the middle of a fight, what with her highly mobile style. But that was a hurdle for another day.

"I still prefer a bow," Gough said, sitting behind her, "though I won't deny guns are effective."

"Your kind of bow is a little too big for me."

"You could get a little one," suggested Gough. "A little bow for a little person."

"Just because you're so damn tall-"

"Just because I'm so tall," Gough agreed, laughing.

Ciaran shook her head, a small smile on her face. "So, how'd it go with equally-tall but more-broody?"

"I'm not too worried. Smough asked me to let him speak to Gilderoy in person, however. One would assume that means to not say anything to you, either."

 _Lame._ "Understandable," Ciaran said, ignoring her inner Artorias. "Did Artorias come back last night?"

"If he did, he was gone again by the time I woke up," said Gough. "You gave me time to sort things out with Smough. I think we should do him the same courtesy."

"This is different. This is with a teammate."

"True," said Gough.

"Gilderoy said he was angrier than he'd ever been. Even when Smough-"

"I assure you, I'm just as worried as you are. But Artorias doesn't let much get him down. We'll give him time."

"Gough, it was about Quill. He's had two years."

"Not everybody is suited to killing. I imagine Quill's death weighs on his conscience. Isn't that a good thing?"

"Not if he gets like this every time it's brought up."

Gough shifted. "Perhaps. I would still advise patience."

"I'll consider your advice."

"You won't follow it though, I'm sure."

"I'm considering it."

/-/

Winter Schnee returned to her office and shut the door behind her, letting out a pent-up sigh of relief. Navigating the minefield of Atlesian politics was never a problem – but talking to scientists was another matter entirely.

She cleared her thoughts and strode over to her desk. Politics could wait.

Artorias' contact details came up on her terminal, and she dialed his number. He answered almost immediately.

"I got your message," she said. "What's the emergency?"

" _Does there have to be an emergency?"_ he said, smirking, though it didn't reach his eyes.

"You don't tell someone to call them ASAP at three in the morning unless it's important."

" _And you don't put off calling someone who asked you to call them ASAP at three in the morning until ten in the morning unless you don't think it could possibly be that important."_

"I had a meeting," she said, following Artorias' verbal mess with ease. "So – what's the emergency?"

" _There's no emergency."_

"I doubt it." She peered closer at the screen – there were bags under his eyes, and his hair was even more disheveled than usual. "You don't look well, Artorias."

" _Excuse you, I look fabulous."_ At least he retained his wit.

"You don't look well," Winter repeated. "Did Gilderoy ban you from your bed?"

He winced. _"Close."_

"How you don't class this as an emergency is beyond me. I thought you valued sleep above… well, above anything."

" _At least you admit that some things are beyond you."_

"Stop avoiding the problem. What happened?"

" _I don't want to talk about it."_

"Clearly you do, or you wouldn't have asked me to call."

" _Believe me, I don't."_

Winter resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose. "You're acting like a child."

" _When am I not?"_

"If you don't want to talk about it, why call?"

" _You called me."_

Despite herself, she rolled her eyes. "At your behest, you boob."

" _Semantics."_ He couldn't keep a straight face, and looked away for a second, chuckling.

"I have to leave for another meeting in-" she checked the clock- "nine minutes, Artorias."

" _Oh? Who're you blowing me off for?"_

"An overly self-important councilman by the name of Sulyvahn." It wasn't exactly classified, after all. The councilman had requested a briefing on the projects of the military's research and development division. Ideally, R&D would have sent their own representative, but Doctor Polendina refused to let any of his own people speak to Sulyvahn, and was too terrified of the councilman to do it himself.

And so, a specialist had been assigned. General Ironwood was annoyingly lenient towards Doctor Polendina's… quirks.

" _The religious guy?"_ Artorias asked. Sulyvahn was also, officially speaking, the head of the Church of the Deep, though he had such a small following that it hardly mattered.

"Hence the self-importance."

" _Sounds boring."_

Winter couldn't bring herself to object.

Artorias sighed, and it was as though a façade fell away – he'd seemed tired before, but now he looked downright haggard. _"Look – I was just wondering… what are things like between you and your father?"_

"Excuse me?" On one hand – it was a somewhat personal question that she wasn't sure she was willing to answer honestly. And on the other – it had come completely out of nowhere.

" _You don't have to answer that,"_ he said. _"I mean, really. I'm just – I don't know, I'm curious._

"Why?"

" _Please?"_

"You're going to have to do better than that."

" _You don't want anything to do with him, do you? Yet, at the same time, you enjoy seeing him fail, seeing him in pain. Am I close?"_

Winter was silent.

" _Am I close?"_ he asked again.

"If you look behind you, way off in the distance, you might see a line that you shouldn't have crossed."

" _Isn't it weird, though? You wouldn't wish hell on a stranger. But someone who cuts you out of their life – they may as well be a stranger, but you'd just_ love _to see them burn. That's the only difference."_

"Artorias, you're exhausted. Apologise, and I'll forget you said any of that," Winter said.

" _How gracious."_

"Aren't I just?"

" _Was I close?"_

"Why is this so important to you?"

He grimaced, and cast his eyes skyward, then, after a moment's deliberation said, _"Because I want to know that you understand how I feel."_

"About whom? Gilderoy?"

" _No. It doesn't matter."_

"Clearly it does matter."

" _Maybe. But – look, forget I asked. I'm sorry."_

Winter sighed. "For what it's worth, I do understand."

The shadow of a smile passed over Artorias' face, and he hung his head. Then he looked back up, and he was smirking like the fool he always pretended to be. _"Tell what's-his-face that I said he's really boring."_

"I doubt Councilman Sulyvahn cares much for your opinion."

" _Self-important indeed,"_ Artorias snorted. _"Thanks, Winter. I mean it."_

"Don't push your luck," she warned. "Until next time."

Artorias' face disappeared from the screen, and all that was left was Winter's own reflection staring back at her, stern as ever.

/-/

The day passed, as days do, and night followed (as nights do), and so Gilderoy found himself at the dance quite alone. Ciaran and Gough were dancing, and seemed to be having a rather good time of it too (though it was a rather odd sight, what with Gough being over twice her height). Gilderoy didn't want to interrupt. But they certainly cleaned up nicely, Gough in his extra-large-tuxedo for extra-large-people, and Ciaran in her silver gown.

"Salutations, friend Gilderoy!"

He turned away from the dancers, his eyes halting on the grinning face that was a little too close to his own for comfort, flanked by two Atlas soldiers.

"Evening, Penny."

"I hope I'm not being too presumptuous in calling you friend, but Ruby says that a friend is someone you trust and you enjoy talking to and spending time with. Do you consider us to be friends too?"

"Nothing about destroying furniture in there?"

"She said that was only for people like Artorias and Yang. Are you like Artorias or Yang?"

Gilderoy shook his head. "Not in that sense. Sure. We're friends."

Her already bright smile broadened even further. "Wonderful!" She glanced from side to side, to the Atlas soldiers at her sides, then leaned in closer and quietly asked, "Could you paint my nails some time?"

Gilderoy had absolutely no experience in painting nails. "Sure," he said. "Why not?"

"Splendid! I asked General Ironwood once, but he said," and here Penny's voice changed to emulate the General's almost perfectly, "I have an awful lot on my plate right now, but I could assign a specialist to the task."

"He has nail-painting specialists?"

She seemed taken aback. "I never thought of that! I assumed he meant his military Specialists. Do _you_ think he has nail-painting specialists?"

"I think it's unlikely," Gilderoy said, but on seeing her crestfallen face he made an amendment. "But it's certainly possible."

"Well then – next time he offers their services, I'll take him up on it and find out!"

From there, they fell into an easy rapport. Penny did much of the talking – asking if he'd like to try on clothes some time (to which he politely said no) or talk about cute boys (to which he grudgingly acquiesced, and they spent some time discussing the wonderful cheekbones and jawline of a suave young lad with blue hair whose profile was ruined, in their opinion, by the goggles atop his head).

It felt good.

Ciaran was quiet – not unlike himself, and it was easy for their conversations to fall into silence. He had no problem with that, but he had to admit, he was a little jealous of how easily she and Artorias could pick up a discussion, argue, and then move on like it was nothing.

Gough – while always a fountain of wisdom – had little desire for small talk.

And Artorias was difficult to talk to at the best of times. As was Smough – these days, at least. He was still waiting on a call from the older Iris brother.

But Penny? It was easy to talk to her. And it was easy to listen to her, even if she could, at times, be quite strange.

/-/

Artorias made it halfway to the punch bowl before somebody tapped him on the shoulder.

"Professor Goodwitch tells me she had to repair a desk in the library."

The wolf faunus turned to see Professor Ozpin watching him, one hand resting on his cane and the other holding a coffee mug (though where he'd procured the coffee at such an event, Artorias had no idea).

"Did she now?"

"Not much happens in my school without my knowing it," Ozpin said.

It took Artorias a moment to place where he'd heard that before. "So – did June steal that line from you? Or did you take it from her?"

"Neither," said Ozpin. He sipped at his coffee. "We both borrowed it from a mutual acquaintance."

"Anyone I know?"

"Possibly," said Ozpin, though he offered no further explanation. "I hear that you and Mr Ornstein had an argument about 'Quill'. Arthur Quill, I presume."

"You heard from…?"

"Like I said," said Ozpin, "not much happens-"

"- in your school without your knowing of it, yeah, I get it," Artorias said. "I'd rather not talk about it."

"But I do," said Ozpin.

"Good for you."

"Do you regret it?"

Artorias sensed that Ozpin wouldn't let him go without an answer, and he couldn't exactly argue with the headmaster the same way he argued with Gilderoy. "The argument or Quill?" he hedged.

"Quill."

"No," said Artorias. "I don't."

"Are you aware that the report says his death was an accident?"

"No," said Artorias. Winter was to thank for that, he was sure.

Ozpin nodded. "You would do it again, if you were given the choice?"

"Yes."

"Interesting." Ozpin sipped at his coffee. "Have you and Mr Ornstein resolved your differences yet?" He gestured towards the red-haired Huntsman, deep in conversation with Penny. Artorias was amused to see that Gilderoy was still wearing his dust-embroidered coat over his suit. A little tacky, perhaps, but not a bad look overall.

"No."

"I suggest you do. If you could pass on a message for me – I'd like to see Mr Ornstein in my office tomorrow morning before you all receive your missions."

"You could tell him yourself."

"Alternatively, you could face your problems. Think on it. Oh – and I'd greatly appreciate it if you didn't spike the punch, Mr Nym."

Artorias patted the flask in his pocket, hardly even surprised that Ozpin had noticed it. "You really think I'd waste this on everyone else? This is for me."

Ozpin smiled a little. "I'd suggest that you speak to your partner while you're still sober. But, either way – please drink responsibly." He went to sip at his coffee, then, seeing that his mug was empty, he placed it down on the table before striding off in Ruby's direction.

Artorias breathed a sigh of relief, then finished his journey to the punch table, grabbing a glass and adding just a tiny bit of whiskey to his drink.

/-/

"Oh, hey Weiss," said Neptune as she approached. How could he seem so… at ease?

"Weiss and Yang set this up pretty much all on their own," Blake told him.

"Wait, seriously?" Sun said, "that's crazy! This party's awesome. I mean, dress code aside." He tugged at his tie.

"You agreed, Sun," Neptune told him. "Keep the tie."

"Yeah, yeah, I got it, I'm doing it."

"Neptune," said Weiss, mustering her courage, "could we talk in private?"

He glanced at Sun and Blake. Sun gave him a pointed look in return.

"Yeah, sure," said Neptune.

She took his hand – looking to him for permission first – and led him upstairs towards the balcony, feeling Blake's eyes watching her curiously as they left.

"Hey, uh, Weiss, so, I just wanted to say – no hard feelings, right? We're cool?"

"We're 'cool'," said Weiss, grimacing at the word. "I just…" she thought back to what Jaune had said – _ask you out, and do it right_ – "I wanted to ask if you want to dance. Nothing more."

Neptune pursed his lips. "Yeah… about that. I – uh, I just-"

"Neptune, I enjoy your company. I enjoy talking to you. You have interesting perspectives on things, and I enjoy debating them with you. And – if I may be so bold – you look really good." Smoking, in fact, though such compliments were better said by people like Yang.

"I try very hard."

"I understand if you don't think of me the same way, but either way I would like to spend more time with you, and given that this is a dance, I would greatly appreciate it if you and I could-"

"I can't dance."

Weiss stopped in her tracks. "Excuse me?"

"I can't dance," repeated Neptune. "Like – you know that story about the really bad dancer who tripped over literally everything and set a church on fire? I mean, that part's not important, but the point is – I'm a _really_ bad dancer."

"You're that bad?"

"I mean, there's no candles here, so the fire's not likely, but yeah, I'm that bad."

"Oh."

"Weiss – look, I mean, you're pretty cool. If this had been literally anything other than a dance, I'd probably have said yes."

"And you didn't explain this because…"

"Because I didn't want to rock up and suck at dancing and embarrass you."

"You mean embarrass yourself?"

"That too, yeah."

Weiss glanced around the balcony – nobody else was there, except for Jaune in the doorway, ushering Pyrrha back down the steps. The blond turned to offer Weiss a thumbs-up, then he disappeared after his leader.

She smiled.

"Is this one of those situations?" she asked.

"Hmm?"

"Where you'd let the team down?"

He shrugged. "It's not the team I'm letting down, is it?"

"I could teach you," she said. "It's not that difficult. And nobody is watching."

"You're risking a broken leg here."

Weiss shook her head and stepped closer, moving Neptune's left hand to her waist and holding the other, placing her right hand on his shoulder. "I'll lead. Just… focus on not stepping on my feet, and you'll pick it up quickly enough."

The music floated up from below, and Weiss moved in time, one foot after the other. Neptune wasn't lying – he was a terrible dancer, and tensed up in her arms, but after a few bars he seemed to relax.

Everything was perfect.

/-/

"Haven't seen you all day."

Artorias, leaning against the railing and looking down over the crowd, didn't bother turning to look. He'd seen Ciaran ditch Gough to come talk to him. Gough was now talking to… was that General Ironwood?

Huh.

"I've been busy."

"Doing what?"

"Homework."

"You don't have any."

"And I wouldn't be doing it anyway." He sighed and looked over to her, resplendent in the silver gown she'd bought just yesterday, before everything had fallen into a mess. "You look good, by the way."

"Asskisser. You look good too, fine, have the compliment." Artorias looked down – dark blue waistcoat, white dress shirt, black pants.

"Very generous of you," he said.

Ciaran sighed. "You should talk to him."

"I will."

"You will?"

"Tonight, in fact."

"Now isn't the time for jokes, Artorias."

"No, I'm serious." The headmaster had more-or-less decreed that he'd have to, after all.

"Then go do it."

Artorias looked over the railing. Gilderoy was deep in conversation with Penny.

"Later, maybe?"

"I could bring him up here, if that'd make things easier for you. I want this sorted out just as much as you do."

"Probably more," he said. "Sure. Go get him. Thanks, C."

"Don't run away?"

"Won't be running away," he confirmed. His keen eyes picked out Jaune, hurrying out the door of the hall. Hadn't he been talking to Pyrrha?

Hopefully he'd be back soon. In a dress.

/-/

Jaune rushed outside, his mind racing.

Pyrrha had said – her exact words – _love._ She _loved_ him.

Not like a brother or like a close friend or anything. _Love_ kind of love.

And he had no idea what to do.

It wasn't like Pyrrha wasn't attractive. She was beautiful. She was gorgeous. But she was also _Pyrrha Nikos_ , his mentor, a champion, a legend. And even if she wasn't all of those things, Jaune wasn't sure he felt the same way anyway.

Sure, he'd let go of Weiss, in a sense. He'd given up on that dream. But, having grown up with seven sisters, he'd seen _so_ many romance movies – wasn't the 'rebound' supposed to be a really bad idea? Not that it was technically a rebound, given that he'd never actually been on a date with Weiss, but it was the same concept, dammit. The relationship you rush into after losing someone else.

At least he hadn't panicked. He hadn't said anything he'd regret, anything that'd alienate Pyrrha forever – he'd said he'd need time to think, and _then_ he'd panicked. And now here he was, alone, outside the warm glow of the party, with only an unconscious (or, perhaps, dead) Atlesian soldier in the bushes to keep him company.

 _Hold up._

He knelt and checked the soldier's pulse – he was still alive. That was a good start.

Then he stood, looking around – there, close to the door to the CCT tower, another soldier, unconscious.

Jaune wasn't stupid. If there was someone skilled enough to take out numerous sentries without anybody noticing (except for him, but wasn't that an outlier?), he probably didn't stand much of a chance against them.

He pulled out his scroll and called for his locker, then switched to his contacts list – he was pretty sure he had Professor Goodwitch's number.

After searching for a few seconds around the 'G' section of the list, it turned out he did not, in fact, have her number.

He could call Ruby – but then, he'd seen her struggling in her heels. She couldn't even dance, let alone fight.

Or perhaps Pyrrha? But no – bad idea, especially after… that.

Ren? He was with Nora. Nora? She was with Ren. Both? Eh, Nora was too loud – she'd tip off the intruder instantly. Weiss, maybe? No – better not to interrupt her thing with Neptune.

Or…

He sent a quick text, then moved to collect his own equipment.

A few seconds later, Artorias came strolling out the doors, flask in hand. "Dude, if you need a dress I could probably, uh, 'borrow' Ciaran's… combat skirt."

"Call your locker," said Jaune, pointing to the unconscious soldier. "There's an intruder in the CCT tower."

Artorias took one look at the soldier, took a long swig from his flask, sighed, and pulled his scroll out.

"Ciaran's gonna be _so_ mad at me," he muttered. He pocketed the flask, shoved his gauntlet onto his left hand, grabbed his dagger and hefted his sword onto his shoulder.

Jaune let Artorias take the lead. The lobby on the ground floor – it too was full of unconscious soldiers.

"Who-"

Artorias hushed him. "It's pointless asking questions until the intruder is dealt with."

Jaune nodded. Artorias circled the room. "It's clear. We'll try the communications room."

They called the elevator – when it arrived and the doors opened for them, there were two guards there, already unconscious.

Artorias held out his flask. "Want some?"

"What is it?"

"Whiskey."

"I don't think it'll help me fight."

"Not the point," said Artorias, but he shrugged and put it back in his pocket.

The doors opened. The room was dark, lit only by the green monitors – but, he hoped, Artorias would be able to see. He looked to the wolf faunus, who was holding a finger to his lips. He then pointed to one of the terminals, and gestured for Jaune to circle around.

"I can see you," Artorias called.

Nothing moved.

In the near-perfect silence, Jaune heard Artorias sighing – then a little 'pop' – the sound of the cap of his flask coming off – then liquid sloshing about, presumably as he raised it to his lips…

There.

A figure leapt up from behind the terminal. Glowing crystals flew from a tube in its hand, lighting up the room – it was a woman. Jaune saw Artorias flick his wrist, spilling the whiskey towards her in an attempt to blind her. Alcohol met burning-hot dust mid-air. The explosion seemed to engulf both Artorias and the intruder, and would have singed off Jaune's eyebrows were it not for his aura.

Vaguely, Jaune was aware of Artorias calling his name, and he took the cue to charge in, sword raised and shield up – now was not the time to experiment with different styles, after all. He swung, once, twice, the masked woman dodging both attacks, then she leapt backwards, a bow forming in her hands as though from shards of glass.

"Move!" Artorias tackled him to the ground and the arrows flew overhead, missing them by a metre or more. Lucky for him, as it happened – he'd intended to catch them on his shield, but as they struck the ground they exploded.

Artorias was somehow already on his feet again. Even slightly inebriated, Artorias managed to drive the woman back, every step a blow and every blow a step, until, her back to the window, it appeared the woman had nowhere else to go, not even blocking Artorias' strikes but merely slanting them away. But then – Artorias' fist came flying in from the left, and the woman dived under his overextended arm, letting it slam into the window at something resembling terminal velocity.

The window shattered.

Artorias whirled around, blade streaking towards the woman, and she leapt over it, planting her feet on his chest and using him as a base to propel herself through the broken window.

The elevator opened again, and James Ironwood stepped out over his unconscious soldiers, weapon at the ready.

"What happened here?"

Artorias was already on his feet, leaning out the window. "She got away is what happened," he growled.

"I saw that some of the sentries were unconscious and called for backup," Jaune explained. "There was an intruder."

Ironwood nodded and holstered his… gun. Whatever kind of gun it was. Maybe Ruby would know?

"My men will secure the area. I need you both to tell me everything."

"I need to get back to my team," said Artorias.

"I understand that this is a social event. I won't keep you long. We can have a more detailed debriefing in the morning."

"Masked woman, glowy-clothes, dark hair. She fought with a bow and exploding arrows. Whatever it was she was doing up here, she was done by the time we arrived," Jaune summarised.

"And she had amber eyes," Artorias added. "And the bow turned into two swords. Need anything else?"

Ironwood pursed his lips. "Did she say anything?"

"No," said Artorias shortly. "We done?"

Ironwood sighed. "I suppose we are. You'll be provided times and a location for the full debriefing on your scrolls."

Jaune followed Artorias into the elevator, stepping over the unconscious guards again.

"I'd appreciate it if you moved them out of the elevator, at the very least," Ironwood said.

Artorias rolled his eyes and pressed the button for the ground floor. "You'd better go find a dress."

/-/

"He's not answering his scroll," said Ciaran.

"It's probably important. I wouldn't worry. He doesn't lie, at least to you," assured Gilderoy. Strange that he was the one doing the reassuring.

"He said he'd stay-"

"-right here, never moved, nothing happened," said Artorias. Gilderoy almost jumped out of his skin – he hadn't heard his partner sneak up on them.

"Where have you been?" asked Ciaran, her brow furrowing threateningly. It was fairly obvious to Gilderoy - he had his weapons with him after all.

"Relax. It was an emergency. Nothing important."

"A little contradictory," Gilderoy pointed out.

"A lot contradictory," Artorias agreed.

Ciaran sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Well, as long as you're here…"

"Yeah. Uh, could you give us some privacy, C?"

"This is a party."

"Relative privacy. It's not like they'll be eavesdropping or anything." He gestured to the dancers below.

"Fine. Fix this," she commanded.

"We got it," Gilderoy said.

She nodded once and gave Artorias a little glare before departing.

"I really am sorry I ditched."

"What happened?"

"It's probably classified," he shrugged. "Intruder in the CCT."

Gilderoy nodded in acceptance, and leaned against the railing. Ciaran had gone to talk with Gough and Ruby, he noticed. Chances were, their conversation was a little more lighthearted than their own was about to become.

"Ozpin wants to see you tomorrow morning."

"Does he?"

"Thought I'd get that out of the way first. You know, in case this goes south." Artorias leaned against the railing next to him. "So."

"So," Gilderoy agreed.

Artorias offered him a flask. "When did you get that?" he asked.

"Today. Impulse purchase."

Gilderoy sighed, took it, and went for a swig – but it was empty. He passed it back.

"Oh yeah," Artorias said. "Swear I didn't drink it all myself."

"Yeah?"

"Alcohol is a weapon now. Didn't you hear? The latest in Grimm-hunting fashion."

Gilderoy shook his head. "Are you ready to hear me out?"

"More-or-less."

"I told your mother because she asked, and because I thought she deserved to know. Taking a life – that's not a small thing."

"And yet you always – _always_ – make light of it," Artorias pointed out. "Every time you want me to feel bad, that's the thing you bring up."

"You said you didn't feel guilty about it."

"I don't," Artorias said. "Doesn't mean I like it." He turned his body towards Gilderoy, bracing one arm against the railing. "Look… you're right, I guess."

"About?"

"Mum deserved to know. I'm a selfish person, Gil. I've always been pretty selfish. I didn't want her to confront me about it. I guess it was going to happen sooner or later anyway. I'm sorry I took it out on you."

"You're not selfish."

"No?" He laughed a little. "If something doesn't go my way, I have a little whine about it. Sometimes I mean it, sometimes I don't. I'm petty and I'm selfish, and I _like_ being petty and selfish. I want you to abandon your dreams because I like Vacuo the way it is. If that's not selfish…"

"Well, at least you selfishly want to save lives from the creatures of Grimm."

"Cheers to that," he said, almost lifting his flask before remembering it was empty. "So. Why'd you go behind my back in the first place?"

"You don't know?"

"Why would I?"

"I thought she would have told you."

"What?"

Gilderoy explained the circumstances – how he and Gough had been planning to push Artorias and Ciaran together for the dance, how the job had fallen to him when Gough had been called by Smough, how he'd approached Miss Nym that morning and asked her to invite Team GWIN out for lunch.

Artorias laughed the whole way through.

"Me and Ciaran?" he crowed.

"I mean, I thought-"

"You know, just because I had a crush on her – what, two years ago? Come on."

"It wasn't about that." Gilderoy tried to rephrase it – it wasn't about playing matchmaker, just… friend-improver. If that was a thing.

"You went to my mother to try and pair me up with Ciaran?" He started cackling again.

"Yeah… it was stupid."

"Really stupid."

Artorias took a while to calm down – probably not helped by the fact that he was at least a little bit tipsy. "So. We're cool?"

Gilderoy nodded. "We're cool."

"You know, as completely fucked as this thing we've got going is – I wouldn't trade it for anything."

"I would," admitted Gilderoy. "I hate fighting with you. You understand that, right? Arguing isn't a good thing."

"I'm hurt," said Artorias, though his grin said otherwise. "It can be fun. Just as long as you don't take everything so seriously."

"You don't take anything seriously," Gilderoy said, ignoring the fact that Artorias had taken Quill very seriously.

"My point exactly. Lighten up, Gil. It's good for you."

Then Artorias turned back to look at the crowd, and broke out laughing again, pointing one finger into the crowd. Gilderoy followed it, to see a tall young man with blond hair.

He was also wearing a dress.

Gilderoy snickered.

* * *

 **A lot of little changes culminated in this chapter. Pyrrha jumps the gun, Neptune confesses his inability to dance to Weiss, Jaune goes to the CCT tower.**

 **Had to be very, _very_ careful with POV this chapter. I doubt I'll be touching on Quill again for a while, but all the hints for _why_ he's important should be there now.**

 **It was a challenge keeping the story focused this arc, I'm gonna be honest. A lot had to get cut. Last chapter, it was Neptune and the petition for Sun to wear a tie. This chapter, a whole lot of Yang got cut (damn shame, she's so much fun to write). And Blake still manages to sit on the fringes of the spotlight. The cast is so damn big. Gah.**

 **At least I can afford to keep Solaire as a side-ish character for now, though I _would_ like to show his bromance with Hawkwood at some point. They were the first partners I put together, actually (though I formed Team GWIN first, I didn't decide who was partnered to whom until much later).**

 **I do have a little announcement to make. University's going crazy. I've got a lot on my plate right now.**

 **Terribly sorry about this, but there's going to be a small hiatus. It'll only be a couple of weeks. Most of my assessment is due on the 26th and the 29th (with some minor stuff in June as late as the 12th), so I'll be back in that time period once things start to calm down.**

 **Next chapter - June 2nd.**


	14. Chapter 13: Field Trip

**Oh, it is good to be back.**

* * *

"I'd give you pretty much the exact same advice as last time."

"Ask her out?"

"Be honest, and be open. That part. Okay, maybe not the _exact_ same advice, but it's the same principle, right?" Artorias shrugged.

That had been Ren's recommendation as well, more-or-less, when he'd confided in him on their way back from the dance. Honest and open, huh? Jaune didn't know how he felt in the first place, much less how to put it into words.

Nora's advice, on the other hand, had been to ask Pyrrha out – her justification being that they could then go on double-dates (but not actually dates, she was quick to point out, because she and Ren weren't actually dating or anything).

Sometimes he wondered about those two…

"Jaune?"

"Huh?"

"Think you forgot how to use your feet."

Jaune looked down – indeed, he'd stopped walking. "Right. Sorry. I was thinking." He cleared his mind as best he could and set off again towards Ozpin's office. It'd been lucky, really, that he'd had to get out of the dorm so early. It meant he could avoid Pyrrha for just a little bit longer, and god knew he needed the time to think.

"So – what'd she say? Exact words, I mean."

" _I think I'm in love with you,"_ Jaune recited. The words were practically engrained in his mind.

The dress had been something of a last resort – he'd thought it'd be a way to express sympathy that she'd been dateless that night (including the option of himself as a date), but also a way to say that he had absolutely no idea what he was doing.

Because that was the truth. No idea. Zip. Nothing at all.

Artorias rubbed his chin. "No lead-up or anything? Just straight into it, huh?"

"Just… straight into it."

"Damn. And then you said…?"

"I think I said I'd take her word for it," Jaune admitted. Not his best, he'd freely admit – but it had taken another minute or so for him to realise what it was she was saying.

Artorias snorted. "Nice. Then what'd she say?"

"She kinda went full confession mode. She said she felt normal when she was around me."

"Ouch."

"No – not like that. She's just – you know, she's kind of a celebrity?"

Artorias looked at him sidelong, one eyebrow raised. "I think I missed something here."

"She won some big tournament in Mistral a bunch of times, I dunno. Oh, she's also the girl on the Pumpkin Pete's box," Jaune explained.

Artorias pursed his lips, his brow furrowing in thought. "Mistral Regional?"

"Sounds right, I think. Wait, do you not have Pumpkin Pete's in Vacuo?"

"I grew up in Vale," Artorias reminded him offhandedly. "I mean, no, we don't really have anything big-brand. Well, aside from Schnee Dust, but even that's not particularly high profile. Hey – did you hear about the time they tried to sell their stupid toothpaste in Vacuo?"

Jaune hummed in thought. "At the last Vytal Festival, right?" Unless he was mistaken, there had been a massive advertising campaign for Shi-nee toothpaste. Billboards, posters, commercials – if they could stick their logo on it, they did.

It seemed like a bit too much effort just to sell toothpaste, especially seeing how poorly it had worked for them.

"Yup," Artorias said.

"Didn't people deface the billboards?"

"Defaced?" He shook his head. "Sun and I _improved_ those billboards, thank you very much," Artorias said proudly.

"No way. That was you?"

"Most of them. Obviously, some other people had the same idea, but there were plenty to go around, so it didn't matter much."

"Did you ever get caught?"

"Give me some credit, man. Okay, actually, yeah, I got caught _once._ But I got off pretty light."

They stepped into the elevator and tapped the button for Ozpin's office. "So…"

"So?" Artorias raised an eyebrow.

"I still need to work out what to say to Pyrrha."

"You'll figure it out," Artorias shrugged.

"I don't _want_ to figure it out, though," Jaune confessed. "I don't want to have to say no or say yes or say anything at all. I just want to – I don't know, I just want things to go back to normal."

"Why can't they?"

Jaune's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"You could tell her exactly that, you know. I think she'd understand."

"But things wouldn't be 'normal'. I'd _know_ ," he said, wringing his hands. "You know, I don't know a lot of stuff. I'm not the most perceptive guy. I always thought that sucked but…" he struggled for words. "Now I know, I want to go back. And I can't."

"Look, just because I gave some half-decent advice that one time doesn't mean I have all the answers," shrugged Artorias. "I can't make up your mind for you."

The elevator dinged, a faint "come in" was heard from the office, and the doors opened.

"Good morning. Thank you both for coming," said Ironwood.

"I've certainly had worse mornings," Artorias shrugged, earning him some quizzical looks from Ironwood and Glynda. Jaune assumed there was some sort of humour in the statement that only the wolf would quite understand.

"Did you speak with Mr Ornstein?" Ozpin asked.

"He said he'd go to the bottom of the tower and come up when we were done," explained Artorias.

"I'm glad you reconciled your differences," said Ozpin.

"Heh, not quite."

"Unfortunately, I'm rather short on time today. If, once we're done, you could ask him to wait for me, I'd appreciate it."

"Sure thing."

Ozpin nodded, then addressed Jaune. "Thank you for coming. How are you feeling?"

Jaune shrugged. "Eh…" He wasn't sure if the headmaster was asking just in general, or about the incident at the CCT. Either way – he certainly wasn't feeling particularly good.

Or particularly bad, for that matter. Just… uneasy.

General Ironwood stepped forwards, perhaps sensing his discomfort, and laid a hand on his shoulder. "I think you should know that you performed well last night, Mr Arc. You recognised a threat. You recognised your own capabilities – and you did the very best you could."

"I helped too."

"Although if you were to take the time to call for backup, you certainly could have picked someone a little more sober," finished Ironwood.

"Uh…" Jaune looked between Ironwood and Artorias.

"In my defense, I think I did quite well considering I was tipsy," Artorias protested. "But he's not wrong. Do you have any of the teachers' numbers?"

"Being a teacher and being drunk are not mutually exclusive traits," muttered Professor Goodwitch, glancing sidelong at Ozpin.

Ozpin cleared his throat.

"We'll ensure that our contact details are available to every student before they depart on missions," said the general, giving Ozpin a pointed look as he returned to stand next to Professor Goodwitch.

"Now – the general here has already informed us of the events that… transpired last night," said Ozpin, "but now that you've rested, we were wondering if you had anything to add."

"Was anyone else with her? Did she look familiar to you at all?" Goodwitch asked.

Jaune glanced to Artorias, who shrugged. "You caught on first," he said.

Jaune sighed. "It's just like I told General Ironwood." He repeated more-or-less what he'd told the general that night – he'd seen some unconscious guards, called for backup, then gone to confront the intruder. It had been a woman, masked, dressed in black, with dark hair and amber eyes.

"And you said her clothes were embedded with dust?" Goodwitch prompted.

"Uh, yeah. I think so."

"Embedding clothes into dust is an age-old technique. It could have been anyone."

"She does match the description of the woman who helped Torchwick, however," said Goodwitch, "as little as we know about her."

"You said you didn't see her face," Ironwood said. "We can't be sure."

"It's certainly worth considering," Ozpin mused. "And you didn't see which way she went from the tower?"

Artorias shook his head. "She pushed me away from the window before she jumped. By the time I recovered, she'd disappeared."

"Did she seem Hunter-trained? We might be able to cross-reference her weaponry with the academies' records," Ironwood put forth.

"Perhaps. Perhaps not," Artorias shrugged. "It's not like people growing up outside the kingdoms don't learn anything either. And her weaponry was basic enough to be obtainable outside of an academy's forge – aside from the dust, of course."

"And it's not as though she would have any shortage of dust, if she were working with Torchwick," Ozpin said. "I'm afraid we don't yet know enough to narrow anything down, but it's a start."

"Do you know what she was here for?" Jaune asked.

Ironwood paused and stroked his chin. "No. We don't. We've looked at each terminal's access history, and there was no recorded activity that night – but then, it's possible she wiped it. And, as far as we know, there was no physical property taken from the communications room. Either she did something we can't trace, or you interrupted her before she could achieve her goal."

"Fingers crossed then," said Artorias.

"Fingers crossed indeed," Ironwood muttered, though he made a sour face at the expression.

Ozpin cleared his throat. "I'm sure you both have missions to prepare for. Thank you for your time," he said.

"Sure thing." Artorias started walking towards the elevator. Jaune bowed his head in what he hoped as a dignified and respectful manner, then turned to follow Artorias.

Glynda called after them. "You'll be serving detention with me when you return from your mission, Mr Nym, for-"

"Drinking at a school event, sure, fine," he said, waving one hand at Ironwood without even turning around.

Jaune couldn't even imagine daring to show the combat teacher that kind of disrespect.

"Mr Nym? Mr Arc?"

But Artorias would stop for Ozpin, it seemed, for at the older man's voice he paused. The two students looked back towards the three teachers, who, with the light streaming in from the window behind them, suddenly seemed grander than they had before – wiser perhaps, older, each carrying a great weight on their shoulders.

Or maybe Jaune was just stressed.

"Keep this discrete," said Ozpin.

/-/

"We're right back where we started," said Ironwood.

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. We're no closer to our goals, but it seems neither are our enemies."

"We don't know that the students stopped her. Not for sure."

"We know for certain that they're here now, and that they're hunting Amber," Ozpin mused.

"It's possible that they're not connected," Glynda said.

"Is it? For what other reason would someone want to infiltrate the school? To cause an international incident? If so, I certainly hope that nothing they could do could put us at each other's throats, James."

Ironwood shook his head. "You have my trust."

"And you have mine. And the council of Vale seems to like you well enough. Cultural enrichment, was it?"

"It took a little compromise, but they were more than happy. Do you object?"

"Not at all." Ozpin sighed and stood. "Could you call the first-years to the amphitheatre, Glynda?"

"I think this is a little more important."

"Normalcy is important. We cannot be seen to be scheming behind closed doors at the expense of our students."

She hesitated, then nodded. "Of course." She moved towards the elevator, and the doors hid her from view.

"Normalcy is one thing," said Ironwood, "but we need a plan."

"What do you propose? We can hardly round up every dark-haired amber-eyed girl in Vale and ask Jaune and Artorias to identify them. Nor can we round up every woman to own a red dress and ask Ruby to do the same. For now, all we can do is hold the line and wait. Amber is safe, and stable. Well – stable enough."

"We wait for our enemies to make a mistake? We cannot rely on that, Oz."

"Not a mistake." Ozpin walked towards the elevator. "But they will have to show their hand sooner or later."

/-/

"Strange choice of reading material."

 _It's your turn._

Mercury could almost hear the little green-haired minx in his head – in fact, he might be. He still wasn't sure if she could do auditory illusions too.

Since when had it been about _turns?_ He was just the muscle. Admittedly charismatic muscle, and he was hardly out of his depth – but muscle nonetheless. That wasn't something he wanted to change. Hell – if this team was anything like the first-years Emerald was supposed to be cozying up with, he'd be in a psych ward by the end of the week.

Now – Merc wasn't big on reading. But he certainly _could_ read. And even if he couldn't, he'd be able to tell with reasonable surety that the redheaded man he'd sat himself beside was learning how to paint nails. The pictures gave it away.

"Promised a friend I'd paint their nails," he explained. "I intend to do a good job of it."

"Huh." Mercury nodded, not quite understanding the appeal. If Emerald ever asked him to do her nails – not that they were _friends_ , per se – he definitely wouldn't agree to it. And even if he did, it'd be a very rushed job indeed, and she'd have hell to pay for his humiliation.

The redheaded man closed his scroll and offered a handshake. "Gilderoy Ornstein of Team GWIN. Shade. Third year."

"Mercury Black, Haven," Mercury said, glad that his target had taken the initiative to introduce himself. But Gilderoy narrowed his eyes, and they locked on Mercury's own as they shook hands, and for a brief second he was worried that Cinder's escapade at the CCT had managed to blow their cover. But then Gilderoy gave him a sharp nod, and the moment passed. "Third year, huh? I'm only a first year – been wondering for a while what you old folks do."

"Old folks?" Gilderoy raised an eyebrow.

"Older. It's a relative term," Mercury corrected himself, noting for future reference that the redhead had a rather dour sense of humour.

"Hmph." He didn't seem particularly impressed by that. Although, Mercury thought, Gilderoy couldn't be older than twenty, perhaps twenty-one. That was a little young to be self-conscious about one's age. "It's mostly more of the same," said Gilderoy. "It might be different at Haven, but at Shade we also picked up an aura manipulation class in second year and we have electives for applied dust sciences, advanced engineering, piloting, or field surgery in third year."

Mercury could already feel himself falling asleep. Well, at least it wasn't as bad as Port.

Of all the ways they could have infiltrated Beacon, Cinder just _had_ to pick the one with classes.

"Sounds interesting," Mercury lied. "So – what're you doing out here on a day like this? Shouldn't you be talking about – I don't know – the kind of mission you want with your team?" He'd seen the wolf faunus come out of the CCT tower and exchange a few words with Gilderoy – the blond kid too – but ignorance was the best defense.

"A little hypocritical. First-years choose missions first, do they not?"

"Good point. But we've done all that talking stuff already," he said. It wasn't quite a lie – Cinder told them she had something in mind, though she hadn't given any specifics.

"Yeah? What kind of mission are you looking for?"

"Uh, something nice and calm," Mercury bluffed. "In the city, hopefully. We haven't really had a chance to… see the sights."

"I see."

"Forever Fall's another option, if there's a search or destroy mission there maybe. I mean, that wouldn't be very calm, but none of us have had a chance to see the forest yet, so…" God – it was so hard to carry a conversation with this guy. He was too polite. And too quiet in the first place.

"I wouldn't get my hopes up, if I were you," Gilderoy mused. "Chances are good that Forever Fall's going to be a popular choice."

"Fingers crossed, then."

" _Would all first year students please report to the amphitheatre?"_ Professor Goodwitch's voice crackled out over speakers nearby.

"Well, I guess that's me," said Merc, standing up. He sighed – hardly believing that he was tasked with making _friends_ with people, and said, "You could come down with me and get an early look at the mission boards, maybe?"

On a hunch, he glanced around, hoping that Emerald wasn't hiding somewhere filming him.

"That's alright," said Gilderoy, all formal-like. Absolutely no fun. And it wasn't even Emerald's kind of no-fun, where it was still fun to push her buttons. Mercury just found Gilderoy… boring. "I'm waiting for someone."

"Oh, cool. Well, I'll see you around."

Another short nod, and Mercury slinked away to observe from afar again. He still had time to get to the amphitheatre anyway.

He took into account the man's weaponry – of course, his main weapon (whatever that was) was probably in his locker. But Mercury, having spent so much time around Cinder, knew what dust embroidery looked like. But, where Cinder's dress was embroidered in a manner that kept aesthetic in mind, Gilderoy's coat was clearly made with purpose, and purpose alone. Symmetry went right out the window, for one – and it clearly wasn't a stylistic choice either. It was just disconcerting, each pattern starting and stopping at irregular intervals to make the coat a fashion disaster.

Honestly, if he'd spent so much lien on such a garment, Mercury thought, he could at least make it look nice. Perhaps there was more to it, then. Some meaning behind the pattern that Mercury was unaware of. Cinder might know.

Mercury was about to turn away and head over to the amphitheatre when he saw Gilderoy rise and greet someone – it was Professor Ozpin.

Well then – Cinder would want to know about _that_ too.

/-/

"Terribly sorry about the delay. There was a matter I had to take care of – I'm sure you're aware."

"More or less," said Gilderoy.

Ozpin nodded. "Walk with me."

Gilderoy acquiesced, and they set off down the path towards the amphitheatre.

"What do you know about the Great War?" Ozpin asked.

Tilting his head in confusion, Gilderoy asked, "Excuse me?"

"The Great War. I'm sure you're familiar."

"Naturally," Gilderoy said, hurrying to catch up with the conversation. "What about it?"

"I was curious as to your knowledge about the minute details. The intricacies of each kingdom's armies, their strategies, their tactics. Indulge me, if you would."

Gilderoy peered at the old headmaster closely. "Why me?"

"I'm a teacher, am I not?" Gilderoy hadn't even noticed until now, but Ozpin had a mug of coffee in one hand. He took a sip from it.

After a moment, he nodded, though it was clear Ozpin wasn't being entirely honest. "I don't know much beyond the broad strokes, I'm afraid," said Gilderoy. "I know that Vacuo's army was more of a volunteer militia force. They provided resources to Vale more than troops. And Vale…" he tapped his chin in thought. "Vale had levies, right? Mostly untrained forces, at first volunteers…"

"But then conscripts." Ozpin nodded. "Not a particularly proud moment in our history, but desperate times, as they say, call for desperate measures. But we also mustered forces from our nobility – you are aware, I'm sure, that classes and castes were far more rigid in those days, especially in Vale and Mistral."

"Right."

"Vale had her knights," he continued. "Many with delusions of grandeur, of course, but at the very least they had training." He shook his head. "And how about tactics? Strategies… how did the army of Vale fight?"

"What about Mantle and Mistral?"

"I'm afraid I won't have time for that," Ozpin said, smiling lightly and gesturing towards their fast-approaching destination. "I have a considerable number of students who'll be waiting for me shortly."

"Right. I don't really know a great deal about it. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. After all – I'm a teacher." Ozpin sipped at his coffee. "The bulk of the army would form battle lines three men deep – fresh recruits in the front, veterans in the middle and knights in the back, with cavalry to flank as necessary. But they also had a unit to cover the army's rear in the event of a Grimm incursion. Some say they were chosen for this role because they were expendable. Others think that it was a duty given only to the elite." Ozpin shrugged. "Either way, it was a tactic that worked quite well for them, especially in the campaigns before Mantle and Mistral adopted similar methods to combat the Grimm."

Gilderoy nodded slowly. "Thanks for teaching me, I suppose. Though I'm sure I'm missing the point."

"You can make whatever point of it you choose," said Ozpin, regarding him with keen eyes. "There may be no point at all."

"Did any of these… elite – or expendables, whatever you want to call them – did they go on to be the first Hunters?"

"Some."

They came to the door to the amphitheatre, and Ozpin turned to him. "Think on it. And if a point comes to you – you know where to find me." And again, Gilderoy felt as though Ozpin was looking for something specific, something _very_ specific from him – and something that he himself didn't know he had. Or maybe he just didn't have it. Maybe Ozpin was mistaken.

Or maybe Ozpin was slowly working his way through every one of his students, having the exact same discussion.

Gilderoy cleared his thoughts. "Of course," he said with a sharp nod. Then he turned sharply on his heel and set off, his mind whirling.

"Oh – Mr Ornstein?"

Gilderoy turned around. Ozpin had yet to enter the amphitheatre. He was looking at Gilderoy intently – no, he was looking _past_ Gilderoy. He checked behind him; nobody was there.

"Yes?"

"Have you ever heard of Operation Mirror?"

Gilderoy shook his head.

Ozpin nodded, a frown setting in on his face. "Nevermind, then," he said. His eyes flickered again to a point somewhere behind Gilderoy, then he turned away and disappeared into the building.

/-/

"This is perfect! All we have to do is shadow a huntsman working in the southeast," Ruby cheered. The crowd of first-years was beginning to disperse to the mission boards following Ozpin's speech.

"We can follow them around by day and give them the slip at night."

Weiss was about to suggest that they check search and destroy, when Blake spoke up. "Did… Ozpin seem alright to you?"

"He seemed fine," Weiss said. "We could check search and destroy?" The team nodded in acceptance, and they pushed through the crowd towards the mission board.

"I can't say I've ever thought of Ozpin as _fine_ ," Yang leered.

"Spare me the thought," Weiss drawled.

"Spare _me_ the thought," she teased.

"I think I preferred the puns," Blake muttered.

"There's punty of time for those too," Yang said, her horrid grin growing ever-wider. Weiss closed her eyes for a few seconds, putting Yang's antics out of her mind as best she could.

"Hey, here's one in quadrant five. Grimm to be cleared out," Ruby said, ushering them closer.

"It's certainly in the southeast," Blake said.

"Sounds perfect."

Ruby pressed the screen, bringing up the keyboard, and entered in RWBY. Weiss felt her stomach drop a little as the words "MISSION UNAVAILABLE TO FIRST YEAR STUDENTS"came up on the screen.

"Wonderful," she said sardonically.

"Any other ideas?"

"We mail ourselves there," Ruby said. Weiss wasn't entirely sure she was kidding.

Weiss glanced around briefly at other mission boards, hoping that there would be another mission in the area available to first years. Ozpin caught her eye – pacing amongst the students, occasionally offering a word or two, of advice or encouragement probably. "He's always been distant," she murmured.

"What was that?" Ruby asked.

"Ozpin," she clarified. "He's always been a little distant, especially at addresses like these. Do you remember orientation?"

"I remember," Blake said. "But did you see how he gripped his cane?"

"I can't say I ever paid any attention to it before," said Weiss, "so I don't have anything to compare it to."

"Gonna have to go with Weiss on this one," Yang said, and for a second Weiss thought that the blonde would be helpful. "Unlike Blake, I've never been interested in how my teachers grip their… canes." She was clearly doing her best to suppress it, but her shit-eating grin spread across her face once again.

"Yang, please," said Blake, maintaining a deadpan. "Your _little_ sister is right there."

"I drink milk!"

"Then don't be explicit," Yang shrugged. "She drinks milk."

Weiss let out a little noise of annoyance and turned back to the mission board. "We could just sit here and make sure nobody gets it before Team SSSN?" she suggested.

"Yeah, but we need a mission too," said Ruby.

"We could get one in the city," suggested Yang. "Chase down the Yarrow lead."

Ruby nodded. Over the intercom, Professor Goodwitch was calling the second-years to the amphitheatre. "Stay here. I'll get us a mission," she said.

/-/

"So he just asked you about the Great War and that was it?" Artorias asked.

"He seemed pretty out of it," said Gilderoy.

"He seemed alright when I was up there. I mean, he's always been a little…" Artorias made a circling motion with his index finger around his ear and crossed his eyes, earning a snort from Ciaran. "But he didn't seem particularly absent to me."

The call for third years to select missions had come not too long after the second years. On the way, Gilderoy had caught them up on his little chat with Ozpin, though they were still somewhat confused by it.

"And you said he asked you about… Operation Mirror?"

"Yeah."

"Are you sure it wasn't Mirrah? Spelt with an 'a-h', I mean," Artorias suggested. After all, if they'd been talking about Vale specifically…

"Mirrah," Gilderoy tested it on his tongue. "I don't know. Maybe. Why?"

"Mirrah was a town on the east coast of Sanus," explained Artorias. "We learned about it in history class back at Flare."

"You were actually listening?" Ciaran asked.

Artorias gave her his best deadpan. "I _do_ listen… sometimes. Mirrah was part of the kingdom of Vale, so it was brought up in class once or twice. You know how it is – schools only care about the kingdom you're in."

"Why Mirrah? What was notable about it?" Gilderoy asked.

Artorias nodded. "It was the first battle of the war that the Grimm won. Mantle laid siege to the town. Eventually, all the negativity brought on the Grimm. The besiegers died, the garrison died… the civilians died."

"What, then, was Operation Mirrah?" Gough asked.

Artorias shrugged. "I don't know. If we covered that in class, I was-"

"Sleeping?"

"Not paying attention," he corrected, giving Ciaran another pointed look. "I would _never_ sleep in class."

"Sure, sure."

They entered the amphitheatre. Ozpin was nowhere to be seen – instead, Professor Goodwitch was on the stage. There was a brief speech about the wonders of cooperation and harmony and peace and all that good stuff – then they were directed to select missions.

"Did we ever decide what we were going for?" Artorias asked.

"Didn't you want to chase up the Yarrow thing? Or the southeast thing?" Ciaran asked.

"Hold up – I'll ask Ruby," he said. "See if they've got it covered."

He pulled out his scroll and sent a quick message. Not a moment later, she responded with a thumbs-up.

"Think that means they've got it covered?" he showed his team his scroll.

"Think they've got it covered," Ciaran said.

"Thumbs-up are kinda vague."

"They've got it covered, Artorias," said Gough.

"Just making sure – I mean, she might mean that she wants us to dislocate our thumbs, you know?"

"They've got it covered," repeated Gough.

"Or worse, chop them off."

"Artorias?" Gilderoy put a hand on his shoulder. Artorias responded with a grin.

"Yes?"

"Stop."

He let out an overdramatic sigh. "Fine," he said. "So – what are we doing?"

"Nothing too stressful, I think," said Gilderoy.

"Boring."

"I don't think we have much choice," said Gough. He was much taller, and using his height to his advantage, he peered at each mission over the heads of the other students. "There's a few for perimeter defense," he said. "A few village security… one escort-"

"Ew. No thanks," Artorias said.

"You'd probably scare away our escortee anyway," Ciaran teased.

"Rude."

"True."

"Both of you, stop. Anything else, Gough?"

"Some search and rescue. But only one search and destroy… and that just got taken."

"Escort sucks," Artorias said. "Search and rescue sucks too."

"You're good at search and rescue," Gilderoy pointed out. "I thought you liked being good at things."

"Still boring."

"The fourth-years are showing up," Gough warned. "We're gonna have to pick soon."

Gilderoy looked between his team. "Village security?"

"With high Grimm activity?"

"Sometimes, you've just gotta take the easy road, Artorias," Ciaran said. "Find one with as few Grimm as possible."

"You just want to spite me."

"That I do."

* * *

 **In my time off, I've had a lot of time to think about the pace of things. With that in mind, a few changes are happening. Ozpin's gonna get more focus. A certain character I thought wouldn't get a mention until Volume 4 is getting some love earlier than anticipated.**

 **On one hand, I hate these kinds of chapters where it's just setting up for the next arc, because it feels like nothing really happens. But on the other hand, they're really quite necessary. And there's a lot to set up - Team SSSN is going to Mountain Glenn, Team RWBY is heading into Vale (they may or may not get badges, so you know it's official), Team CMEN (you can pronounce that however you like, for now) are... doing their thing. And Team GWIN is gonna get really bored with so few Grimm to kill. Or they won't.**

 **And Ozpin is distracted. Stay tuned.**

 **Next chapter - 9th June.**


	15. Chapter 14: Old Souls

**In hindsight, the start of this chapter should have been the end of last chapter. Oh well - such is life. And I'm sorry that I'm posting this so late in the day, but it was a difficult chapter to get right. I'm still not sure I got it right, to be honest.**

* * *

"Yeah man, we've totally got a plan. We've got the best plan. Like, every plan ever made? Take them all – take all the good ones, I mean – mash them together, and _bam!_ That's our plan."

Artorias and Gough caught the end of Sun's rant to Team RWBY – about what, they weren't entirely sure.

"You could almost call it a _ker-plan!_ " Yang said, pointing finger guns at the monkey faunus. Groans ensued.

"That wasn't your best," said Artorias, stepping into the circle of students. Neptune and Weiss, he saw, were standing together, looking both uncertain and quietly pleased at the same time.

"Oh, hey," said Ruby, nodding to both him and Gough.

"We didn't cut our thumbs off," said Artorias.

Ruby looked at him strangely.

"That wasn't your best," mimicked Yang.

"It's an inside joke. You get it, right, Ruby? Gough?"

"Nope."

"I get it, but it's not very funny," said Gough.

"You guys are lame."

"Sun! Neptune!" a green-haired man called from further down the docks.

"Right, so… our Bullhead's leaving like, right now, and we should _really_ be on it, so…" Neptune trailed off.

"Yeah… But seriously though, don't worry about it, we've totally got a plan, and it's _awesome,_ " said Sun, backpedalling towards the Bullheads and getting progressively louder to call back to them.

"Good luck," Ruby called, as the two Haven students dashed off towards their team. "Leave some world-saving for the rest of us!"

"World-saving? Why don't _we_ ever get the world-saving mission?" Nora and Team JNPR walked up to them, Nora looking like she was about to break down into tears.

"She gets upset when she's hungry," said Ren calmly.

"Well maybe if you'd made more _pancakes!"_

Artorias noted that Jaune and Pyrrha were standing next to each other, but not particularly close; he sent a questioning look Jaune's way. Jaune glanced sidelong at his partner to check she wasn't watching, then gave a shrug and a tentative thumbs-up.

A thumbs-up could mean just about anything.

"So, what mission did you take?" asked Pyrrha.

"We're just going into the city," said Ruby, "to shadow a, uh, a private investigator I think?" She glanced at her team looking for confirmation.

"You saw the mission board, not us," said Weiss.

"Yeah. Private investigator. Yeah," said Ruby.

"We're supposed to meet him in an hour," said Blake.

"Sounds… nice?" said Jaune. "We're going to a village outside the kingdom tomorrow."

"We're going to shadow a sheriff!" said Nora. "Ooh, I hope he has a horse. And one of those cool hats!"

"Our team unanimously decided to take a quiet mission outside the kingdom," said Gough smugly.

"Yes," said Artorias, shooting a glare at his tall teammate. " _Unanimously."_

Gough chuckled heartily. "Speaking of which, the others are probably waiting for us. All of you, good luck."

"JNPR's mission sounds fun. Can I-"

"No." Gough gripped his shoulder and led him towards the Bullheads. Artorias turned back to wave goodbye, and it might have been his mind playing tricks on him but he could have sworn he saw Ruby's bag wriggle on her back.

/-/

Cinder led Mercury and Emerald to the docks of Vale. The two bickered behind her the whole time, but she'd grown accustomed to tuning it out.

"What kind of mission is this again?"

It took her a little longer than it should have for her to realise the question was addressed to her; not so long as to be awkward, however, and she maintained her composure. "I'm merely fulfilling a favour. We're shadowing a… friend on their mission."

"Friend, huh?"

"I wouldn't expect you to know what friends are," said Emerald.

Mercury ignored her snide remark. "She wants me," he told Cinder.

Blissful silence. She'd been surprised to receive the call. Councilman Sulyvahn didn't give up his favours lightly. Perhaps his agent had bitten off more than they could chew.

"Why is it always an abandoned warehouse?" Mercury asked.

"Shady business for shady places," said Emerald.

"You'd think the police would have caught on by now. Always the same kind of place."

"Both of you, please, be quiet," commanded Cinder.

"See? She hates your voice just as much as I do," said Emerald.

"I think you'll find she said both of us."

They reached their destination; Cinder entered first. A man stood within, barely taller than Emerald, wearing the uniform of an Atlesian Specialist. Beneath his coat was plate armour encrusted with pale blue dust. Even seeing it sent an uncomfortable chill down Cinder's spine.

"I was under the impression there'd be four of you," he said. His voice was deceptively warm, his timbre somehow smooth and lyrical.

"Mint is preoccupied," she said, sure to use Neo's codename as a cue for Emerald and Mercury to do the same. She didn't entirely trust the specialist, after all – even though he was one of Sulyvahn's men.

Actually, especially _because_ he was one of Sulyvahn's men.

The specialist nodded. "And these two are…?"

"This is Mercury and Emerald," Cinder said, gesturing to the two as an introduction.

"Specialist Vordt," said the specialist. "I'm not much one for pleasantries."

"What a shame," drawled Mercury. "I was preparing ice-breakers the whole way here."

Vordt sighed. "Do you still need him?"

Cinder tilted her head. "I don't know what you're implying," she said, "but a threat to my subordinates is a threat to me. You don't want that, do you?"

Vordt's eyes narrowed. "And a threat to me is a threat to the Pontiff," he said.

"I can afford that risk," she said. "Can you?"

For a moment, their eyes were locked, a battle of wills. Then Vordt looked away, and Cinder smirked triumphantly.

"What's the mission, _Specialist_ Vordt?" she asked, turning the title into a mockery.

He paused, probably contemplating all the mistakes he'd made in his life to get involved with people like Cinder. "Atlas is kindly loaning a painting of great cultural significance to the Vale museum for their Vytal exhibit," he said at last. "It arrives in Vale tonight."

"Let me guess. You want us to steal it?" Emerald asked.

Vordt levelled his gaze at her. "No. The Pontiff wants us to protect it."

Mercury scoffed. "Boring."

Vordt turned back to Cinder. "Vale has assigned their own representative to oversee the delivery. Each team will escort a vehicle to the museum; ours will be a decoy, and theirs will be carrying the painting."

"Who has Vale sent? A Hunter? The VPD?"

"A Huntsman named Vengarl."

Cinder let out the most undignified snort she'd ever made. "Vengarl?" If Vengarl was involved, there was no way that the painting would need any more protection.

"You know him?"

"I know of him." Though, she supposed, most did not – it didn't sound like Vordt did. But Sulyvahn knew of him, for sure. "I've heard stories. If even half of them are true, he is one of the most dangerous men alive. Unless, of course, he's gone senile in his old age."

"I've spoken to him. He seems sharp enough."

"Then there's no reason for us to be here," said Cinder. "Unless we're here to protect _you_ from _him._ "

"I, for one, have not done anything illegal," he said. "Like forging documents to enter a Haven Academy, for example. Vengarl has no reason to suspect _me._ "

"And Sulyvahn knows that Vengarl is here?"

"He does."

Cinder frowned. "Then he is wasting a valuable favour."

"It must hurt for you to… be in the dark," said Vordt. "Don't worry so much, Cinder. Our job is only to ensure that the painting reaches the museum. Nothing more. Nothing less."

/-/

Sun was the first to step out of the Bullhead, stretching his arms and breathing in the dusty air. "Almost like home," he said. Although back at Vacuo, it was more sand than dust.

Behind him, his team came out, Scarlet stepping carefully to avoid as much dirt-encrusted ground as he could. "I already hate it here," he said.

"Well, we've got two jobs to do, then we can all go home," said Neptune.

"Speaking of which," said Sage, "you said you had a plan."

"I do have a plan," said Sun. "And it's a fantastic-"

"So we've heard. What is it?"

Sun rubbed his hands together. "Okay, so, the plan is that we go romping around making as much noise as possible, killing Grimm as per the mission statement, right? We just have to make sure that the White Fang hear us, and then at night, when they come to take us prisoner, we split up, yeah, so that they take _some_ of us but not _all_ of us. And then the people who _aren't_ in chains follow the White Fang back to their base, do the rescue thing, then we stop them as a team. Waddaya think?"

His team looked between themselves, then back at Sun. All at once, Neptune and Sage both said, "That's stupid."

Scarlet, to his credit, seemed more on board with Sun's masterfully crafted plan, for rather than putting it down he said, "Shot-not being the bait."

"It's not stupid!"

"It's stupid."

/-/

"This the right place?"

Team RWBY stood awkwardly in the hallway of a hotel, in front of a wooden door with the number 412 on it.

Ruby checked her scroll. "This is it."

"Do private investigators usually work out of hotels?" asked Yang.

"I wouldn't know," said Blake.

"I was just expecting, like, one of those offices with the PI's name in gold plating on the door. Oh, and with no lamps or anything inside, just hazy afternoon sunlight coming in the windows. I wonder if he'll be smoking a cigar?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Yang," said Weiss. "I'm sure he'll be far more professional than that."

"It might not have said private investigator," Ruby admitted. "I wasn't really paying much attention."

"Lame. Plan still stands, right? We do the mission now, then we sneak out to investigate Yarrow tonight?" Yang said.

"If all goes well, yes," said Weiss.

"So…" Yang said. "Should we knock?"

"We should knock," said Blake. Weiss rolled her eyes and knocked on the door.

There were some faint footsteps, some indiscernible muttering – then the door opened in front of them to reveal an old man. But, while his skin was wrinkled and his hair was grey, nothing else about him suggested age. There was a fire in his eyes. His shoulders were broad, and his folded arms were well-muscled beneath his leather jerkin.

He must have aura, Ruby thought, which meant he was even older than he looked. Aura could (to some extent) slow the ravages of time. Port, for example, was old enough to have grey hair, but his skin had yet to wrinkle.

This man, however, was old. _Very_ old. Qrow had once told her that the old ones were the best ones.

"I didn't think girl scouts did hotels," he said. His voice was low and quiet – gravelly, yet somehow at the same time kind and soothing.

Weiss cleared her throat. "We're not girl scouts. We're the team from Beacon. Team RWBY?"

His brow furrowed. "I don't recall offering to be shadowed."

"It was on the mission board…" said Ruby, shrinking beneath his gaze. He was taller than them as well – almost as tall as Gough, even, but lacking the gentle familiarity.

"Ozpin wants me back, no doubt," he muttered. "Come in. I won't turn you away just yet." He stepped aside and allowed them entry into the hotel. The main room was mostly taken up by a single large table, across which was laid a map of Vale. Two lines were drawn on it, connecting the docks to a building at the tip of the northern headland, each line taking a different route through the city. To the left was a small kitchen, partitioned off by a bench, and along the right wall were two closed doors.

It was a cramped space, and one that he'd clearly spent little time decorating – there were no ornaments, no souvenirs, save for a picture frame hanging on the wall next to them. Within was a photo, old and faded, of three people, their arms slung around each other's shoulders. On the left was the (maybe) private investigator, or so Ruby guessed. But here he was much younger, and in full armour – a fur cloak over leather. On the right, a woman, with long blonde hair, blue eyes, and a lighthearted smile. And in the middle was a man who seemed oddly familiar to Ruby, with his fair hair and a slightly lopsided grin.

"Who is that?" Ruby found herself asking. "The one in the middle."

The old man didn't respond. But her team glanced over; "He looks like Jaune," said Weiss.

"That's quite enough," said the old man. He walked to stand behind the table and stooped down to lean against it, his massive hands balling into fists. "Understand that this should not be a particularly difficult mission, but also that I will not accept incompetence nor distraction. If I do not find you to be up to my personal standard, I will send you straight back to Ozpin. Are we clear?"

Ruby nodded. She didn't need to look to know her team was doing the same.

"Good. My name is Vengarl. What, exactly, did your mission board tell you about this task?"

The team all looked to Ruby; she'd been the one to find the mission, after all. "It said that we'd be shadowing a private investigator within the city," she said, not sure how accurate or inaccurate that was.

"Private investigator?" Vengarl raised an eyebrow. "I suppose it's apt enough." He drew himself to his full height. "The museum of Vale is putting on an exhibit for the festival," he said. "Atlas has kindly loaned them a painting given by Vale to Atlas on the day the academy opened. It's of great cultural importance to both kingdoms, so both kingdoms are understandably concerned with the possibility of it being stolen in transit. As such, it's arriving by boat, tonight, hidden amongst an SDC shipment."

"Isn't dust a high-risk target, sir?" asked Weiss.

"Don't call me sir," he corrected calmly, levelling his gaze at her. "Fortunately for _all_ our senses of humour, dust is not the only thing that the Schnees export."

"Wait," said Ruby. "I mean, not wait, but sorry to interrupt, but are they really smuggling an artefact in with a shipment of _toothpaste_?"

"Other companies rent the spare cargo space, Ruby," Weiss said. "It won't _just_ be toothpaste."

"It will be mostly toothpaste, however," said Vengarl. "No need to ruin my fun, Miss… Schnee?"

Weiss pursed her lips. "Of course."

He nodded, the hint of a smile playing on his lips, then looked back down to the map. "We will be taking the route marked in green. Atlas' representative will be escorting a decoy marked in white. What are your individual strengths?"

"Uh…"

"What are your effective fighting ranges? How quickly do you move in a fight? How quickly do you reposition out of a fight? Are you suited to fighting groups or single foes?"

"Oh." One at a time, they listed off their skills.

Ruby Rose, long-range sniper or mid-range melee, agile in and out of a fight, effective against groups or singular foes depending on the range.

Weiss Schnee, mid-range dust and short-range melee, agile in a fight but less so out of one, a duellist with a focus on singular enemies.

Blake Belladonna, mid-range pistol and short-range melee, extremely agile in a fight and able to reposition quickly with her ribbon, capable of a mix of single-target and group combat.

And Yang Xiao Long, long to mid-range explosives, short-range melee, a little less agile in a fight but able to reposition with recoil, with a healthy balance of single-target and group combat.

He made them list it off with mechanical precision. Ruby could tell that the gears were turning in his head. "Miss Rose and Miss Schnee will be team one. Miss Belladonna and Miss Xiao Long will be team two. This afternoon, we will mark out vantage points over each road on the route. Tonight, each team will handle one road at a time, alternating, so that the artefact constantly has an eye in the sky. Unless you can pull a third team member out of your pockets, we can have up to two vantage points for each road. Do you understand?"

"Sure thing, Gramps," said Yang.

Ruby's eyes widened and she poked her sister in the arm. _"What are you doing?"_ she hissed.

Vengarl looked at her calmly. His mouth was set in a line. After a moment's consideration, he said, "I'll accept that." He reached down under the table and pulled up a belt, a pair of massive swords already on it, and strapped it around his waist. "Miss Rose, leave your bag here. We've got…" he checked his watch. "Four hours to scope out the route. Then we'll meet with Atlas' man and wait for the shipment."

"Uh…" Ruby tentatively took her bag off her shoulders.

"Is everything alright, Miss Rose?"

Zwei popped his little corgi head out of the bag and yapped once. Her team groaned.

Vengarl sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "The dog can stay here."

"He has his aura activated," said Ruby.

"The dog will stay here."

"He can be our third team member!"

"The dog _will_ stay here," he repeated.

Ruby pouted. "Yes sir."

"Don't call me sir."

/-/

"This place even _looks_ boring."

"It looks just like every other village in the middle of nowhere," said Gilderoy.

"Exactly. Boring."

But at least it had a landing pad, Artorias thought. Not every village had a landing pad. Once, they'd taken a mission in a town in the mountains south-east of Vacuo, and the terrain had been so steep they'd had to land in the foothills and trek all the way up. As it happened, this village, in the eastern foothills of the mountains east of Vale, had a landing pad just inside the southern wall.

The Bullhead set down on the aforementioned landing pad. "You two, go find the inn and organise rooms," said Gilderoy. "We're supposed to be here a couple of days. Gough and I will check in with the – what was it, mayor?"

"I think he styles himself 'earl'," said Gough.

"A little pretentious."

"Places like this have weird customs," said Ciaran, shrugging. "You shouldn't let it worry you."

"Hmph. Artorias, don't get drunk," commanded Gilderoy.

"I _can_ show restraint, you know," he said, already heading off with Ciaran.

"But you won't?" she smirked.

"Eh. Maybe." There was a sign next to the stairs leading down off the landing pad; it said, _Welcome to Carim!_ It was all very cheesy. Artorias considered tearing the sign down. _Far_ too pleasant.

Carim, as it turned out, was a little different than most backwater villages on eastern Sanus. Namely, the roads were built from sparkling white granite rather than the usual dreary dull-greenish-grey stuff, or even just cobbled roads. And here they were well maintained, too – in almost every place Artorias had ever been, the roads were cracked, weeds poking through the gaps, but here it was as though each road was hewn from one giant slab of granite.

Everything else was pretty much the same. Houses were built from wood, and from grey brick. Corners of major roads were marked with lampposts made of iron. There were no street names, or at least none that Artorias could see.

The inn itself was easy enough to find – a building about three stories tall, only a street away, with a sign hanging outside labelling it, quite matter-of-factly, _'The Inn'_ , as though it were the only inn in the entire world.

Preposterous.

"What's the bet that the rooms are gonna be massively overpriced?"

"I won't bet on that," said Ciaran.

The door was already open. It was a rather homely atmosphere inside; a fireplace against one wall, a bar at the opposite side, tables in between. It was the middle of the day though, so it was fairly quiet, with only three patrons, a bartender, and in a corner a minstrel plucking at the strings of his violin and lazily humming a tune, more to himself than to the meagre audience.

Artorias and Ciaran glanced at each other, then made their way to the bar.

"We'd like to get some rooms, please," said Artorias.

"And I'd like some details," said the bartender, a stocky man with a crooked nose. "We've got a few rooms with one bed, a few rooms with two beds, a few rooms with double beds. What're you after?"

"Two rooms, two beds each."

"Just a moment." He went into the back room and came out a few seconds later with a pair of heavy keys and put them down on the bartop. "That'll be two thousand lien a night."

"You're joking."

"Course I'm fucking joking. Worth trying," he grumbled. "Fifty lien for each room upfront, then fifteen a night."

Artorias hadn't seen the rooms yet, but assuming they weren't utter garbage it was a decent price. He gave the bartender the money, then turned to Ciaran. "You and the others better remember to pay me back."

"I'll remember," she said.

"You're Hunters, right?" said the bartender. "We sent out that call a week ago. Took your time."

"That's probably us," said Artorias. "What's the deal?"

"Ask the earl. He's paying." He got a cloth and started wiping the bartop, a clear indication that he was just about done talking. "Can I get you anything else, or are you gonna go do your job?"

"Uh-"

"That's all," said Ciaran, dragging Artorias away.

"I swear I wasn't going to get beer."

"I don't believe you."

"I'm hurt. It was going to be whiskey."

Ciaran shook her head. "Of course it was." She sighed and took out her scroll. "Gil says to meet at the east gate," she said.

They set off again. The village was fairly small, all things considered – Artorias was surprised that they even had a wall, to be honest. And it wasn't even a bad wall. It was made of the same overly-sparkly granite as the roads. Corners were marked with towers, the walls themselves had crenellations from which to fire out – they were actually quite impressive. Where all the granite came from, Artorias had no idea. Perhaps Carim was a quarry-town?

"What's the deal?" Artorias asked, as they reached the east gate. It was made of wood and iron, set in a granite gatehouse. Gil was speaking with some townsfolk, all carrying lumber axes. There were a few mules nearby, attached to large wagons.

"The north gate's rotted," said Gil. "This lot's being sent out to get timber to build a new one. We're making sure they don't die."

"They have axes. They can defend themselves," Artorias joked. There were a few awkward laughs from the lumberjacks. There was a significant lack of plaid, Artorias noted – how could they be lumberjacks without plaid?

"The militia is on constant watch at the north gate," said one of them. "So they can't keep an eye on us while we get the wood to fix it."

Artorias nodded. "How long do you think it'll take?"

"The earl said it'd take a few days," said Gough. More nods from the lumber-not-jacks.

"And they couldn't have just shipped in timber from Vale?" Artorias grumbled, earning a kick from Ciaran. "Fine. We all ready?"

More nods.

"Let's go," said Gilderoy. "Stay close together. Artorias, you're with me. We'll take point. Gough and Ciaran, bring up the rear."

"This better not be boring," muttered Artorias.

"It's gonna be _very_ boring," Gilderoy shot back, as they walked out of the town. The area outside the walls was cleared for several kilometres – the forest was a way away, down the foothills. They had a long way to walk.

"I hate this mission."

/-/

"Where are the possible threats?"

They were standing on the roof of a factory at one end of the street. The vehicle would be turning right onto the road and coming straight towards them before turning left again to head towards the bridge. They were still in the industrial district; the road was lined with warehouses and cranes and cargo containers, and perhaps later they'd have parked trucks to consider as well.

This was the fifth road they were examining. Vengarl, they'd quickly found, was a very meticulous planner.

"Warehouses – if any doors are left open, they're a potential hiding place," said Blake. "The windows on the upper gantries can also be used as a vantage point for a sniper."

"Good. What else?"

"There's a manhole halfway along the road," said Weiss. "A bomb could be planted on its underside, or an assailant could use it as an entry or exit point."

"Good of you to consider explosives. Miss Rose?"

"The warehouse rooves are curved. A lookout from here won't be able to see someone lying on the other side. We'll need two vantage points for this road."

"Perfect. Miss Xiao Long – any suggestions?"

"We can use the warehouses to our advantage as well. Ruby can hide inside and use the windows to snipe."

"But…" Vengarl prompted.

"But she needs to get in from her previous position and out to her next one promptly. A position indoors makes that difficult – she could also sit partway up one of the cranes, or on a roof of a warehouse at the other end of the street."

"Which would be quicker for you, Miss Rose?"

"The warehouse roof," she said.

Vengarl nodded in acceptance. "Do any of you have anything else to add?"

Yang shook her head, as did the rest of her team.

"You're forgetting something. Miss Rose will also have to worry about an assailant from inside the factory," said Vengarl, kneeling down and tapping the building's roof.

"Oh."

"Oh indeed." He gestured that they should follow him and vaulted over the low wall around the roof, grabbing onto a ladder and sliding down to the street below.

"So… about Yarrow?" said Yang.

"Yeah, we'll have to do that tomorrow," said Ruby.

"That's fine. We can-"

"Ahem?" Vengarl coughed to get their attention.

"Gesundheit!" Ruby called.

"I mean, it's not like Yarrow's place is going anywhere. We do the mission tonight and go to Yarrow's tomorrow," said Blake.

"Got it."

When they returned to Vengarl, he was looking at them, an eyebrow raised, foot tapping impatiently against the ground.

"Sorry Gramps," said Yang. "Teenage Yangst. I'm sure you remember the days, right?"

"Is she always like this?" he asked.

There was a chorus of 'yes' and 'yup' and 'always' from the rest of the team.

"I hope there won't be any such delays tonight?"

"No sir."

"Stop that." He gestured up to the factory – there were windows all along the wall. "A sniper could hide in any one of those windows," he said. "Miss Rose, you'll have your work cut out for you."

"I can handle it."

"I'm sure you can." He clapped his hands together. "Moving on…"

/-/

Birds, Artorias found, were fucking annoying.

They didn't care about anything, really. Tuning into them with his semblance always made his head hurt – they only ever really communicated that they were coveting something, whether it was another bird, food, or even just a nice stick. It was like having a thousand little children screaming "Mine!" over and over in his head.

But, on occasion, they would send out a wave of alarm. They knew when something was wrong.

"Grimm, north-ish, maybe about a hundred metres away?" They weren't ever specific about locations, though.

Gough peered into the foliage. "Beowolf." He drew his bow and let loose.

In two hours of sitting around waiting for lumber-not-jacks to cut down trees, that was their first Grimm.

The sun was beginning to get a little low in the sky. Another hour or two and they'd have to head back. They'd started pretty late in the day, after all, having arrived around midday. Tomorrow they'd be up bright and early, and Artorias would have to listen to more fucking birds for the entire day.

Artorias groaned at the thought, took a sip from his flask, then went back to listening to the stupid bastards.

/-/

That evening, when Ozpin stepped into his office, he found himself stopped in his tracks. There, standing in the middle of the room, was a woman – in her mid-twenties, with blonde hair and clothes of black and gold and white and blue. She faced away from him, but he knew that if he were to see her face that the tissue around her left eye would be blackened and twisted.

Which wasn't entirely accurate. That was just how he'd been seeing her of late – but the scar marring her face had never been quite so gruesome in reality.

"I have to make a call," he said once he'd gotten over the shock, walking around her to his desk. "Though I appreciate that you're taking the time out of your oh-so busy schedule to come to my office."

"A call?" she asked – and indeed, there it was, the strange mark over her eye. Hallucinations, he supposed, didn't have to be accurate all the time.

"I really ought to talk to June, you know."

"Am I not important?"

"You're a figment of my imagination."

"Is your sanity not important?" she asked, smirking.

Ozpin paused. "Well, I always thought that if I went insane, I'd be haunted by Gwyn. Not you."

"Or Salem?"

He pursed his lips. "I have to make a call," he said. "Go away."

She smiled, and when next he blinked, she'd disappeared. Ozpin cleared his head and brought up the call function in his desk.

June picked up almost immediately. "I've been waiting, Oz," she said. She was sprawled on her couch in her office, scroll held up by her right hand.

"I've been busy," Ozpin said off-handedly.

"Looking into Team GWIN, I hope."

"I don't spend every moment of my time fulfilling your whims," he said.

"But you have done it, right?"

"Naturally."

She reached behind the scroll for a cup of coffee – or, at least, Ozpin hoped it was coffee. It might have been tea, for all he knew, but it was easier to believe that it was coffee.

"Still waiting, Oz."

Ozpin cleared his throat. "Artorias is capable. But he's not very good at keeping secrets."

"Oh?"

"Rather, he's not good at hiding that he _has_ secrets," Ozpin corrected. "Though I suppose he doesn't divulge them readily. You may recruit him when the tournament is over."

"Are you sure we have that kind of time? Ozpin, two maidens have been attacked. One is _dead._ "

"This Vytal Festival is already under more scrutiny than I'd like, what with James' presence in Vale. I'd rather not put our efforts at risk by telling the least subtle student of Shade our secrets."

"I trust him."

"And that's why I'm allowing you to bring him into the fold – _after_ the festival," he said. He sipped at his coffee. "I won't take unnecessary risks with Amber's life."

"Think some more on it. I think you'd be surprised."

Ozpin sighed. "I'll consider it further."

"Thank you. And how about Gilderoy?"

"You're mistaken," said Ozpin firmly. "There's no doubt in my mind."

"You could just be seeing what you want to see," she shrugged.

"That's a little harsh," he said.

"But true." She sat up, and held her scroll a little closer to her face. "Ozpin, you don't _want_ him to Awaken. You don't want him to judge you."

"No," he said, "I don't." And suddenly, he was acutely aware of someone watching him. He looked up, and there she was again, blue eyes looking at him curiously.

"Ozpin?"

He looked back at the screen.

"They are not the same person. I suppose I can't expect you to understand that."

"June-"

"It must be so easy, having a little voice in your head to tell you _why_. Someone to sort your memories into neat little boxes. It must be nice to have them all arrive at once in a rush, so you understand how everything fits together, even if you can't recall it properly." Her eyes were narrowed at him – she was angry.

"Old souls are forgetful," said the blonde woman. "We were not so fortunate as to - how to put this delicately? _B_ _orrow_ someone else's."

"Look at me, Ozpin," said June. "Whether it's Gilderoy or not, he – or she – will make a decision when they Awaken. Unless it _breaks_ them. Old souls are fragile, Ozpin."

"Say her name," the blonde woman hissed. "You don't deserve this. You know I hated you. She doesn't understand that. It will hurt her. She deserves it."

"Ozpin-"

"Shut up," said Ozpin quietly. He hadn't noticed before, but there had been a roaring in his ears. Now there was silence, save for the endless clacking of gears above him. The blonde woman was gone again. June was watching him expectantly.

"I will speak to Mr Ornstein again," he said. "I don't want to, but I will."

"If anything will Awaken him-"

"I know," he said. "I know what to do. And if you're right… if it breaks him again, it's on your head. Not mine."

"It won't."

"Say her name, Ozpin." And there she was again, now leaning against a pillar. There was a pad in her hands, and she was writing something down.

"Go away," he muttered.

"What?"

He shook his head. "Don't expect anything," he said, then he hung up before he could say something he'd regret.

"I think that went well."

Ozpin let out a long sigh. "Is this what happens when you drink dozens of cups of coffee a day?"

"Don't be dramatic," she quipped.

"You weren't like this at all," he said. "You were never smart with me."

"Are you calling me dumb?" she joked.

"And you never indulged in humour with me," he continued. "This isn't right."

"No," she said, "it's not." She kept writing. "But this is your imagination, not mine."

He was silent for a while, holding his head in his hands. "She's right, you know?" he said at last.

And he looked up, and instead of a woman there was a young man. He was tall, with long strands of messy grey hair swept upwards to accentuate his height. A cloak wrapped around his shoulders, obscuring the lower part of his face. But, like the blonde woman from before, he was leaning against the pillar, writing something.

A letter.

"That's not fair," said Ozpin.

"Isn't it?" His voice was low and quiet and soft.

"Fair to you."

The man tore the page from his notepad and let it go. It defied gravity and floated over to Ozpin, landing smoothly on his desk. Hallucinations, apparently didn't have to obey the laws of physics.

First, written in the handwriting of the blonde woman:

 _I would no longer be me. I would look like me, but I would not be me. I would be… lost._

 _It scares me._

 _I remember dying._

Then, in the hand of the man with the windswept hair:

 _The Wizard has a wit about him, a certain wisdom that Father lacks._

And again, in a different hand, neat and printed as though someone went to painstaking effort to make their handwriting legible:

 _I write to request that one Lucatiel of Mirrah be reinstated under my command._

"Why-"

"That was the moment you failed."

"I didn't fail," said Ozpin.

"All the narcissism of all the fools in all the world cannot compare to the conceit of a dead immortal," he said. "You failed _her_. And that's what matters, in the end. You failed me, too. Do you really think I'd forgive you?"

Another line appeared on the page, in the blonde woman's handwriting - but it had been scribbled over, so that Ozpin could barely read it.

 _I am sorry, dear little-_

Ozpin blinked. The page was gone. The man was gone.

The gears of Beacon tower ticked away inexorably.

And Ozpin was alone.

* * *

 **I'm trying to skim over Team SSSN a little bit, mostly because Mountain Glenn is old ground and because I don't want to turn Sage and Scarlet into characters I have to constantly consider. I'll still give them a little bit to work with next chapter.**

 **Team GWIN continues to do boring stuff. Skim skim skim. But they're in Carim, so a certain character can't be far...**

 **Team RWBY meets Vengarl. Look, I know what I said about 'late V3 + V4'. But here he is anyway, take it or leave it. I tried to show that he's a tactical thinker who leaves little room for error - he's a soldier, not a hero, and he's a damn good one at that. As the author, it's hard to tell whether I'm being subtle or not. Obviously I'm not being subtle about the painting, what with Sulyvahn's involvement, but I'm curious as to what y'all think Vengarl's background is.**

 **And I can't talk about subtlety without talking about Ozpin etc. If you didn't understand everything, that's alright. That's intentional. When I said 'Ozpin is distracted' last week, I really should have said that he's going fucking bonkers. Although, his chat with June should shed some light on a few things.**

 **And of course, Lucatiel. It's not _actually_ Lucatiel - it's Ozpin's very twisted memory of her - but it's still close. I intend to poke a little bit at 'Operation Mirrah' next week, though depending on pacing it may have to wait until this arc ends. We'll see.**

 **Next chapter - June 16th.**


	16. Chapter 15: Ambition

**I'm working on a new cover for V3. I know, FFN covers are small and at low resolution, and I'm not a particularly good artist anyway - but it looks _really cool._ So far, at least. I'm maybe a third of the way done? I've grown past crappy silhouettes, so you can look forward to that.**

* * *

The Inn was a little more lively at night. Somehow, between complaining about how bored he was and listening to various animals, Artorias had managed to befriend some of the woodcutters (who he explicitly refused to call lumberjacks). The minstrel from before had struck up a comedic ballad about resurrecting the dead - a strange dichotomy, but he made it work.

"So, there we were, just leaving the bar, drinks in hand, crooks unconscious on the floor – and what happens to run past?"

"A Beowolf!"

"No."

"An Ursa!"

"Guys, it wasn't a Grimm."

"A prostitute!"

"What? No!" Artorias had his audience rapt, if a little raucous. And the story he was relaying didn't quite fit with the version he'd told Ciaran. Not that it really mattered, of course - it wasn't like the townsfolk could verify his story. "A giant Atlesian Robot!"

"Huh?"

"One of those new Paladins, I think. Doesn't matter what it was called - to us, it was _prey."_

Ciaran smiled a little. So, he _did_ listen to Port.

She tuned out of the conversation, not curious enough to see how he'd twist the narrative even further. Gil and Gough were sitting further down the table holding a quiet conversation between themselves, with a scroll open in Gil's hand. She scooted down the bench towards them.

"What's going on here?"

Gil turned his scroll towards her. "Checking out Operation Mirrah," he said. His speech was just a little bit slurred, even having had only one beer; she'd forgotten that he was a bit of a lightweight. Not that she was much different.

"Progress is slow," said Gough.

"CCT signal's not too strong out here," said Gil.

"Good. No drunk texting, Gil," she said.

"I'm not drunk."

"Wolfy's going to pressure you to drink more," she said. "He can be very persuasive on that front. Don't give in."

"I said I'd only have the one," said Gil. "I meant it." His eyes darted back down to his scroll. "We've already looked up Operation Mirror – as in, reflective mirrors, not towns – and it's nothing. Well, unless Professor Ozpin was referring to a bug on older scrolls that would cause them to send infinite messages to itself until it crashed."

"Doubtful," said Ciaran.

Gough peaked over Gil's shoulder. "The page has loaded," he said.

"Excellent. And… nothing." Gilderoy tilted the scroll towards Ciaran. The article was a stub - all it said was that Operation Mirrah was a Valean military operation from the Great War. There were no further details, only a redirect link to the Operation Mirror page.

"You could ask Logan," suggested Gough.

"Professor Brim isn't big on history," said Ciaran. "If Professor Port knows about it, you'd probably get a detailed account. But Doctor Oobleck's your best bet."

"I have his number," said Gilderoy.

"Won't he be on a mission right now?"

"Maybe? If he's busy, he'll tell us." Gilderoy scrolled through his contacts list.

It took a couple of moments for Oobleck to pick up. _"Good afternoon Doctor Oobleck speaking how can I help you?"_ His voice was a little fuzzy, as was the picture quality.

"This is Gilderoy Ornstein from Team GWIN? I hope this isn't a bad time."

" _Not at all! I've just been spending my day better acquainting myself with a team of wonderful first-years from Atlas before we depart for our mission tomorrow. But I've got time on my hands now; how can I help?"_

"Would you know anything about Operation Mirrah?" asked Gilderoy.

" _The glitch with the scrolls?"_

"Mirrah – as in the town of Mirrah," clarified Gough.

" _Ah, yes, of course, one moment please."_ He disappeared from the screen. It sounded as though he was rummaging for something.

"Doctor?" Gilderoy called.

" _I'm just checking if this is on the fourth year curriculum, because it certainly should be. Just – hold on a second…"_

"What'd I miss?" Artorias scooted over to their end of the table. "Gil, no drunk texting."

"I'm not drunk," he said, rolling his eyes.

"No? We'll have to change that." He drained his glass. "I'll get the next round. Whaddaya want?"

"I'm good," said Gil.

"Beer, then. Ciaran, Gough?"

"Whatever you're getting," said Ciaran.

"Oh, the opportunity!"

"No absinthe."

"You're no fun. Gough?"

"I believe I'm done for the night."

"Alrighty then."

"How come he gets out of it?" said Gilderoy.

"You're more fun to mess with!" called Artorias, already halfway to the bar.

There was an almighty crash, and Oobleck reappeared on the screen, a massive binder in hand. The pages blurred as he flicked through them. _"Right then, let's see… it seems not! I'll have to correct that for the future."_ Oobleck slammed the binder shut and shoved it off-screen. There was a thud, and a screeching like a cat had been violently startled.

" _There's a document in the Vale Museum Archives referring to Operation Mirrah by name, you see, but the community of historians is somewhat divided on what Operation Mirrah actually was. The Valean public – you're familiar with the fall of Mirrah, correct? The Valean public pinned the fall of Mirrah on Mantle rather than on the creatures of Grimm. Public opinion was at an all-time low. Some historians suggest that, as a result of this, the Valean military's internal codename for their ill-fated counterattack onto Mantle soil was Operation Mirrah; that is certainly what I believe. But there are also some who believe that the fall of Mirrah was an inside job; hence, Operation Mirrah. Those are the two most popular theories. A few others suggest that it was an attempt to capture and train Grimm to fight for Vale, or that it referred to the mission in which Vale combed the ruins for survivors."_

"And this would be good for fourth years because…" Ciaran trailed off.

" _Because in researching Operation Mirrah and in positing further hypotheses or disproving current ones, Beacon's students would be actively contributing to our understanding of history! I'm rather glad you brought it to my attention, in fact. Thank you very much."_

"This document in the museum – is it publicly available?" asked Gough.

Oobleck's eyes lit up with glee. _"I see it's piqued your interest! The original, unfortunately, is not; the document was found in rather poor condition. Much of it is illegible, so to prevent further damage, access to it is highly restricted. It should, I think, be on display for the Vytal exhibit however – obviously within a protective case, but if you wanted to take a look at it…"_

"We'll check it out," said Gilderoy. "Thank you for your time, Doctor."

" _Not a problem! I am a teacher, you know – this is my job, and I'm happy to help. Good luck with your mission!"_ He took a quick drink from his thermos, then ended the call.

They looked between each other in silence for a moment. "Well," said Gough, breaking the silence. "It's something."

"Not much, though. Sounds like _nobody_ knows what Operation Mirrah was," said Ciaran. "Not for sure."

Gilderoy pursed his lips. "It shouldn't matter. Perhaps Professor Ozpin meant nothing by it."

"I doubt he does anything without reason," said Gough. He stretched his arms, his back cracking. "I'm doing the responsible thing and going to bed," he said. "Don't let Artorias keep you up too late. We're up early tomorrow."

"I suppose I'll have indulge him for another round," said Gil, straightening in his seat to look around the room. "Where'd he go, anyway?"

/-/

"Specialist Vordt," the specialist introduced himself. "It's good to finally meet you in person." He offered Vengarl a handshake.

"Likewise," said Vengarl gruffly. He didn't take Vordt up on the offer, looking straight past him to the team.

"Hey Em!" Ruby called. Emerald shared an awkward glance with the silver-haired boy at her side, then smiled and waved back.

"I trust you and yours are prepared, Atlesian," said Vengarl.

"The decoy is of little consequence," dismissed Vordt. His gaze shifted from Vengarl to Ruby and her team, his eyes narrowed. "Does the council know that Beacon has sent their own team?"

"Doesn't matter to me," said Vengarl.

"I hear many members of the council have made enemies of Professor Ozpin. They could be compromised."

Weiss started forwards. Yang laid an arm on her shoulder. "Let them talk it out," she murmured.

"Ozpin would be willing to cross the council," admitted Vengarl, "but not me."

"Consider that-"

"I _have_ considered," said Vengarl, turning back to Team RWBY. "Take a seat. We've got some waiting to do."

They shrugged to each other and made their way across the warehouse. There was a table at one end, another map laid out across it, their route and Vordt's route both marked out. A few chairs were around it; Ruby, Weiss, and Yang all sat, while Blake leaned against the wall. Vengarl frowned and rolled up the map. "Best not to leave anything behind," he said.

"What was his problem?" asked Weiss.

"His concerns are not illegitimate," said Vengarl. Ruby and Yang shared a glance.

"What do you mean, Gramps?"

He sighed. "Trusting Ozpin is… dangerous," he explained. "I am not unaware of that. But Vordt does not have my experience. If Ozpin wanted to steal the painting, he would not send the likes of you. No offence." He brought out a lighter and set the map alight. It burned slowly. Vengarl put it down on the concrete floor and took a seat, keeping his eye firmly on it.

"How long until the shipment arrives?" asked Blake.

"Half an hour, if it's on time," said Vengarl.

Ruby let out a groan. "Waiting sucks," she muttered.

Yang reclined in her chair and laced her fingers behind her head. "I could go for a power-nap."

"A half hour power nap?" Weiss scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous. You'd be snoring into the morning."

"And good snorning to you too," Yang grinned.

Vengarl was still watching the burning map, but he snorted at Yang's pun.

"Watcha thinking about, old man?"

Smoke blew towards him. He breathed deeply. "Fumes," he said.

/-/

There was a rather familiar face further down the bar.

It took Artorias a moment to place it. A gaunt face hidden in lanky unkempt hair. That was Lautrec, unless he was very much mistaken.

"What do you want?" asked the bartender.

"Yeah… drinks can wait," he said, stepping towards Lautrec. He grabbed a stool and took a seat next to the older Huntsman.

"Didn't expect to see you here," he said.

Lautrec lazily looked over to him. His breath stank of alcohol. "Oh. It's you."

"It's me," said Artorias. "Not looking for another fight."

Lautrec nodded and took a swig from his glass. "Good."

"I'm here for information. What happened at Izalith?"

"You and your girlfriend beat me up, remember?" he slurred.

"The fall of Izalith, Lautrec. What happened?"

Lautrec paused, his glass half-raised to his lips again. His eyes searched Artorias'. "Izalith fell?" he said.

Artorias caught Lautrec's wrist as he began to raise his glass again. Something seemed to swirl under the older Huntsman's skin where Artorias gripped him - a white light of sorts. Artorias ignored it for the moment. "I know you were there, Lautrec."

Lautrec jerked his hand away, and some whiskey spilled from his glass. The light beneath his skin faded. "Good for you." He drained his glass and gestured to the bartender for a refill.

"The knight amongst the Grimm. Who was he?"

"A right bastard is what he is," slurred Lautrec. "How should I know?"

A fair point. Expecting _any_ sane person to know about a man who could seemingly command the Grimm was a stretch. "Did you know Anastacia Sil?" Artorias asked.

Lautrec froze.

"What happened to her, Lautrec?" Artorias growled.

Lautrec was poured another drink. He ignored it, instead turning to face Artorias directly. "What is a god to you, Wolf?" he asked.

"Answer the question."

"Answer mine."

Artorias grimaced. "I don't care."

"If you want answers, you'll give a few in return."

Artorias shrugged, struggling for an answer. "I guess it's someone with power."

"Too broad." Lautrec blindly reached for his glass, missing it a few times before managing to successfully pick it up. "Your god is whoever controls you. My god is whoever controls me. That's how I see it."

"What are you getting at?"

"Tell me _this_ , Wolf: what does it feel like to control someone? To decide their fate in an _instant_ – how does that feel to you?"

Amity. Glyph. Blood.

Pleading blue eyes.

Artorias knew how it felt. It felt good. But that wasn't quite right, it didn't quite capture how he'd felt in that moment.

Relieved. He'd felt relieved, for sure. But also a little scared that he'd enjoy killing. But his fear had been so quickly overwhelmed by the rush of power. It was…

"It was intoxicating," said Artorias, truthfully. And, while he felt justified in taking Quill's life, he wasn't sure he'd have decided differently had he been placed in control of another man's fate. Power felt _good._ Control felt _good._

"Then you understand," said Lautrec. He drained his glass and stood. "I did exactly what I wanted to do, because it made me feel good."

"You killed her," Artorias whispered.

Lautrec, having already taken a few steps towards the stairs, whirled around. "I did the only thing that made sense," he snarled. "What would _you_ do? Let's say your friends – assuming you had any – beat your brother to an _inch_ of his life? What would you do? Let's say daddy dearest just… walked out – when you were young, perhaps, and it made your life miserable? What would you do if you found him? What would _you_ do if your sister killed your parents through her own stupidity?"

"I don't have a sister."

"Hypothetical siblings, hypothetical abandonment issues, hypothetical friends." He stumbled a little, bracing himself against the bar with one hand to steady himself. "Inaction is just... we don't blame inaction. It's just as much a choice as anything else – and she _made_ it. It's a choice for cowards, Wolf. Apathy is death. Worse than death. A corpse feeds the carrion." He spat at Artorias' feet. "She got what she deserved."

"Who was she to you?"

"I was her god," he slurred.

"Who was she to you, Lautrec?"

Lautrec stumbled again, more this time. "…murderer," he muttered. Then he fell to the floor, out cold.

Artorias sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and turned back to the bartender. "Is there a jail around this town?"

"Does this look like Vacuo to you?"

"Reckon you could get someone to haul this guy over?"

"On what authority?"

"Dude." Artorias deadpanned. "I'm a Huntsman."

The bartender peered over the bar to Lautrec. "He's one of us, though. That matters a bit."

"He's from here? Got family?"

"Not anymore." The bartender shrugged. "Guess he's trouble enough. I'll get one of the boys to do it."

"Thanks," said Artorias. "Right. I'll get one beer and – do you think you could mix some mustard into a drink?"

"No."

"Damn. Two neat scotches, then."

/-/

"Target is clear," said Yang, jumping to her feet. "Repositioning."

" _Copy that,"_ said Ruby over their scrolls. _"We have a, uh, a visual on the target, you are cleared for the repositioning operation, copy, over."_

Blake audibly sighed.

" _Miss Schnee,"_ said Vengarl calmly. He was travelling with the cargo itself. _"You will handle communication for team one."_

" _Of course,"_ said Weiss.

Yang dashed across the rooftop, not too far behind Blake. She had to use her gauntlets sparingly at this point due to the noise, as they were coming up on the upper-class district. Blake would be in position first; Yang just had to make sure she was there on time.

" _Target is at the road's halfway point,"_ said Weiss.

" _I repeat-"_

" _Miss Rose?"_

" _Yeah?"_

" _Repetition is not necessary."_

There was a muffled, _"Hmph!"_

Further down the street, Blake was already at her post - yet another rooftop. For this particular street, they would both be observing from the same position. Yang boosted herself across to it with one muted shotgun blast.

"Late again."

"Not fair." Yang wasn't bothered by it, of course. There was a chimney on this roof, and she leaned against it, her gaze panning up and down the street.

"Do you hear that?" asked Blake.

"Hmm?" Yang couldn't see any potential threats, but then, it was really rather dark. Darker than she'd anticipated.

"It's like…" Blake looked around. "It echoes."

"Huh." In fact, it was _really_ dark – she could barely see the houses down at the corner where the target would be turning onto their street.

" _Target is clear,"_ said Weiss. _"Repositioning."_

"It's too dark, I can't see it," said Yang. "Blake?"

And then Yang heard it. It seemed like a footstep, but just as Blake had said it echoed in the open air. And what was that other sound? A strange keening, wailing, that she only now realised had been lingering on the edge of her perception the entire mission.

"I can't see either," said Blake. Yang looked to her wide-eyed.

" _Team two, get to street level!"_ roared Vengarl. Sounds came at them in a flurry over the scroll; it seemed like Vengarl had jumped out of the van. There was the sound of metal striking metal, but Yang still couldn't see anything past the darkness that had engulfed the street. She and Blake shared another glance, then leapt down to the street. _"Team one, continue with the cargo – contact the Atlesian!"_ There was another clang. _"Move to assist us once the Atlesian team arrives at the cargo. Team two, where are you?"_

"We're here!" Yang rolled to the side as the van emerged from the strange darkness, then a pair of shotgun blasts accelerated her forwards. The moaning was deafening now. She aimed herself straight towards it, cocking back a fist…

A shape emerged. Tall Thin. Spindly. That was all Yang saw. It ducked beneath her ill-timed blow, and Yang landed too far behind to see more than a haunting silhouette.

But she could hear the crying.

/-/

" _Unidentified assailant on the target,"_ Weiss' voice crackled over Vordt's scroll. _"Our team will keep the assailant busy. Vengarl is requesting that you get to the cargo."_

"Understood. We're on our way," said Vordt. He wore a sinister grin, his pale blue eyes glowing in the darkness.

"You said our job was to protect the artefact," said Cinder, her eyes narrowed.

"It is," said Vordt. He dialled another number into his scroll and tossed it to Cinder. She caught it without looking away from him. "You two, with me. Someone wants to have a little word with you, Cinder."

Mercury and Emerald looked to her expectantly. "Be on your guard," she said, but waved for them to go. Whatever Vordt was planning, it didn't seem as though they were on his hitlist. And even if they were, she trusted them to save their own skins, if nothing else.

" _Touching."_

Cinder looked down at the scroll. On the screen was a man, his face long and thin, with a hooked nose and pale purple eyes that somehow seemed to burn - with what, Cinder could never tell.

"Sulyvahn," she said by way of greeting. "A pleasure as always."

" _And oh, the flattery!"_ His voice was deep, smooth, warm, inviting. Deceptive, too.

"Say what you have to say, Councilman," she said curtly.

" _I'd rather have you ask."_

"I won't beg."

" _Pity."_ He didn't seem terribly sincere on that count. _"Vordt is doing his job well, I hope?"_

"If his job is to protect the cargo, then yes."

" _It is,"_ said Sulyvahn. _"But_ she _has quite a different goal. It sounds like she's already started."_

And then it clicked into place. What did Sulyvahn know of the mission? He knew of the artefact, and of Vengarl.

"Arrogance was always your ugliest trait," she said. "Even Raime wouldn't try-"

" _Come now. We both know Raime is a fool."_ She couldn't exactly argue with that. _"He makes the mistake of fighting fairly. I will not be making that mistake."_

"I'll be interested to see how that works for you."

" _I won't be,"_ Sulyvahn dismissed. " _It matters not to me if Vengarl survives the night. I am an opportunist. Sometimes you wait for opportunities. Sometimes you make them. And sometimes they just fall in your lap. Whether he lives or dies, I will make my point."_

Cinder frowned. "And what point would that be?"

He smiled. It made Cinder distinctly uncomfortable, though she didn't let it show. _"I thought you'd never ask. Do you know who I sent for Vengarl?"_

Cinder didn't respond.

" _I'd hoped that you were better informed, Cinder."_ But he didn't stop smiling, and Cinder knew that he'd kept it a secret on purpose. _"Well – this will have quite a bit less impact – but I'm sure you'll understand my meaning. Go and see for yourself. I'll wait."_

"I'm not your pet, Sulyvahn."

" _No,"_ he said, _"you most certainly aren't. But you_ are _curious. Aren't you?"_

It was a play for power, and Cinder knew it. But at the same time, she knew that Sulyvahn held the cards - short of hanging up and pretending that he didn't exist, she couldn't do anything to him. And, petty an act as it would be, she'd risk Sulyvahn taking the matter higher up the chain of command…

Who would Salem side with? She'd probably berate the both of them, to be honest – still an unfavourable outcome.

A little compromise, then.

She smiled at him. Sulyvahn's smile broadened – then her finger grazed the 'end call' button. "Oops," she said.

Oh, she'd call him back. He wasn't wrong – she _was_ curious. Not just about the would-be assassin, but about Sulyvahn's mysterious 'point'.

But Cinder was nothing if not patient. She could afford to let him stew in his own twisted thoughts for a while first.

/-/

Blake couldn't see.

It was probably one of the most terrifying experiences she'd ever been through, even having once been in a toxic relationship and on the run from the law at the same time. She'd never feared the dark. Faunus didn't have to. They could see just fine.

But not here.

Her heart pounded in her chest. Her ears picked up the slight whistling of a blade through the air. Every instinct screamed at her to jump, and she did, a flaming, curved sword emerging from the darkness and passing beneath her. At her side, she saw the silhouette of Vengarl catch the sword on his own two blades: massive, ancient weapons, covered in rust but still sturdy. With a snarl, he pushed the flaming sword aside and slashed towards it; he struck air.

Blake moved towards him, and they stood back to back, peering into the darkness. It would be better not to split up.

"Where did Yang go?" he asked.

"She charged in ahead of me," she said. "I don't know."

The distinct sound of the blonde's shotgun gauntlets reached Blake's ears. She and Vengarl shared a glance before rushing towards it, staying close together.

"Don't! Touch! The! Hair!"

Whoever – or rather, _whatever_ it was, it was big. Even hunched almost double, it towered over Vengarl, its elongated limbs lending it an alien air. Metal armour clung to its body, and its face was obscured by a strange mask like a grate.

It also had Yang in its right hand, raising her well off the ground. The blonde was firing blasts off into the mask.

Vengarl slammed into its leg bodily, and the creature stumbled with a wail, dropping Yang. It whirled around, swinging wildly at Vengarl; the blade caught Yang instead, halfway to the ground, and the blonde tumbled off into the darkness once more, her aura taking the blow.

Blake gritted her teeth and dashed in. The creature, busy fending off Vengarl's assault, did little to stop her, and leaping towards its face Blake managed to land a flurry of blows. It let out another cry and slapped her away with its right hand; a clone righted her in the air, and she landed lightly, still close enough to see the faint glow of the creature's sword in the darkness.

And then even that disappeared.

"What's going on?" she called, moving towards where she'd last seen it. There was no response. "Vengarl? Yang?"

How the hell could humans live without being able to see in the dark? It was such a horrible, horrible feeling, knowing that something could come out of every shadow and she might never realise until it was too late. Footsteps continued to echo around her, seemingly from every direction; she whirled around, half expecting that flaming sword to come out at her again.

"Argh!"

"Gramps!"

Yang came barrelling out of the darkness past her towards the sound. Blake followed suit. It seemed the creature had a penchant for grabbing, for it had Vengarl in its grasp, his arms locked at his sides, swords still held tightly. It must have sneaked up on him, Blake realised.

She tried the same tactic that Vengarl had used, and charged, slamming into the creature's leg – it stumbled, but did not drop him. It turned to her, snakelike in its movement, and screeched, the sound almost making her ears bleed. Then, it reared up on its legs, drawing itself to its massive daunting height – and slammed Vengarl down on the ground, bringing the sword down to impale him.

The moment its grasp loosened, Vengarl dropped his swords and his arms shot out in front of him, his hands closing around the tip of the sword to hold it mere centimetres from his chest, his muscles straining from the effort. "I hate to be the 'a little help' guy," he growled, "but a little help?"

Blake and Yang sprang into action, Yang charging at its legs and Blake leaping up to harass its sword arm. It screeched again and fell back. There was a yell, and Ruby fell from above, scythe twirling downwards. The massive weapon scraped along the creature's back, sparking its sickly grey-blue aura. A glyph lit up beneath Ruby as she landed, and she charged again. The creature was knocked backwards into the darkness.

There was another wail that split the night.

Then the darkness left, and Blake let out a sigh of relief. They could see it clearly now – it was disappearing into a portal much too small for it, screaming as it did so.

Then it was gone.

"Are you alright, sir?" asked Weiss.

"The painting - did it make it?"

"It should be there by now," said Ruby.

He reached for his scroll, raising it only a little before dropping it with a snarl.

"Are you alright?" Blake asked.

"Don't call me sir," he said. "One of you contact Vordt. Miss Schnee – some freeze dust, if you would."

He raised his hands; his gloves had been burned right through, and the skin beneath was already blistering, though no blood had been drawn. It mustn't have managed to fully break through his aura, though if his aura wasn't healing it, it must have been quite low indeed.

"I'll call them," said Ruby. "I have Emerald's number."

"What _was_ that thing?" asked Yang.

"I don't know," said Vengarl.

Weiss handed him a blue crystal. "It seems to have left us with a lot of… burning questions," she smirked.

"Was that supposed to be a pun?"

"Hey!" She pointed an accusing finger at Yang. "I won't get anywhere if I don't practice."

"No, but… you know what? Fine, it wasn't _terrible_."

" _Thank_ you."

/-/

Cinder dialled in Sulyvahn's number. She hadn't been able to see the fight, of course, what with the darkness – but she'd seen it – her – whatever it was, when it was leaving, and she'd seen the aftermath. She knew what fire could do to an aura, how it could drain it, how it could go straight through it – and she had to admit, Sulyvahn's little pet had done far better than she'd anticipated. In fact, it was entirely possible that Vengarl would be dead, if he hadn't had backup.

But it was never wise to underestimate the enemy.

" _I suppose you saw her, then,"_ said Sulyvahn. The thing was somehow already back in Atlas, stalking back and forth behind Sulyvahn like a caged beast. _"Impressive, no?"_

"I don't think she likes you." Cinder could still hear that horrible moaning over the scroll.

" _She is like a daughter to me,"_ said Sulyvahn. _"Do you see my point, yet?"_

"Is it about not fighting fairly? I suppose it gets some results - nothing I didn't know."

 _"This isn't about Raime,"_ he said. " _I would risk my daughter against a man as dangerous as Vengarl,"_ he said. _"Believe that I would risk her against you. Or your pets. I would risk anything to take you down, if it came to it. My daughter. My position. My freedom."_

"Why?"

" _I will be joining General Ironwood in Vale when the tournament begins. I will need your assistance."_ He held up a hand and stroked his creature's face. Its wailing quietened a little. _"If you do not obey me, I will send her for you – or, perhaps, your pets. Maybe both."_ He shrugged. _"And if that doesn't work, I will hand you over to Ozpin and Ironwood."_

"Salem won't stand for this," she said. "She will kill you if you interfere. You're bluffing."

He didn't seem perturbed. _"I would risk everything,"_ he repeated. _"Remnant has become a world of opportunity. I will have it all, or I will have none of it."_

"Arrogance," she muttered. "I already owed you a favour. You could have called it in when you arrived."

He shook his head. _"No. This goes beyond one favour. And, if all goes well, this will go far beyond Vale. I want your loyalty, willing or otherwise."_

Loyalty?

She peered at him on the screen. What was that burning in his eyes?

That was ambition.

He wasn't bluffing.

* * *

 **Vengarl had so many summons that the boss just ran off :)**

 **Sulyvahn's come a long way. At first, he was actually going to be teaming up with Raime like an evil buddy-cop kinda thing. That idea didn't make it past the conceptual stage (definitely for the best). Then he was going to be a third party to the overall conflict. I wrote a couple of scenes around this idea, one of which was heavily doctored into an intro scene for Gael in Ozpin's office which I then scrapped in favour of hallucination-Lucatiel last chapter (halluci-tiel?). That led to the current iteration, which it would obviously be spoilery if I talked about at further length. So I won't.**

 **Lautrec finally appears in the flesh. His relationship to Anastacia was left very ambiguous in canon, ranging anywhere from 'I want to kill her because she's got a massive amount of humanity' to 'It's my duty to kill her for reasons unexplained'. I went for a bit of both, though naturally I'll be filling in the unexplained part. Eventually.**

 **And I swear, I really was going to leave Quill alone until early-mid V3. But it was an opportunity to show how Art's come to terms with the event since ranting at Gil last arc. Character growth, y'all.**

 **Should be dealing with Mountain Glenn, the Breach, and more Carim next week. Sage vs Banesaw hnnnnng**

 **Next chapter - June 23rd.**


	17. Chapter 16: No Brakes

"Hey Boss!" Perry's voice came from outside the train car. Not that this one was actually called Perry; or, at least, Roman didn't think so. He'd just taken to calling all of them Perry – it made things easier for him. And they'd stopped objecting, eventually. "Found something you might wanna see!"

"Is it good or bad Perry? Cause lemme tell ya – I have _had_ a _day._ "

"Uh… it's some Huntsmen."

Well. Whatever that was, it certainly wasn't good. Roman stepped over to the door to the train car and leaned out, looking at his subordinates and their prisoners. "That would be…" He trailed off in shock.

There were six White Fang and two prisoners. The White Fang were lined up in twos, the front two pairs holding the Huntsmen with tight grips: a monkey faunus Roman recognised in front, and a green-haired boy behind him.

The last two White Fang were holding their weapons. Except they weren't White Fang. They _definitely_ weren't White Fang. Sure, they wore the masks and the uniforms – but one of them was wearing a pair of familiar goggles over his mask, and the other had a red jacket slung over his shoulder.

He tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and breathed out one word. "Idiots."

When he looked back, the two grunts who'd been holding the green-haired boy were gone. The Huntsman in question was pulling himself to his feet.

"If I turn around, you'll just take out these two, won't you?" Roman asked, directing his question to the two abysmally disguised Huntsmen.

"Huh?" Perry and Perry looked at each other in confusion.

"Probably," said Goggles.

Roman let out another long breath. "Okay," he said. In one swift movement, he levelled his cane at the monkey and fired.

When the smoke cleared, Perry-number-one was unconscious, having been thrown a few metres by the blast. Perry-number-two was stumbling away, shaking his head, his ears bleeding a little, aura still sparking from where shrapnel had struck it. The Huntsmen had scattered and avoided the worst of the blast, save for the monkey, whose aura Roman could see crackling and sparking from his skin. The noise had drawn a lot of attention as well. All around the base, White Fang were poking their heads out.

"Oh for the love of- they're infiltrators!" Roman roared. "Kill them!"

There was a moment of complete stillness while the White Fang grabbed their weapons. Then, chaos. There was gunfire everywhere. Roman watched for a moment, assessing the competency of the Huntsmen; they were making quick work of the White Fang. He let out a growl and grabbed the closest Perry. "Attach this car and spread the word. We're starting the train."

"But we're not finished!"

With his cane, Roman shoved Perry against the car. "Do it, or you're finished."

/-/

"I said it'd work!"

"Only because of the disguises," said Scarlet. "And who's idea was that again…?"

"Yes, yes, you're both very clever," Neptune drawled, tearing off the stifling uniform. He was still wearing his usual outfit underneath – perhaps the oddly bulky profile was what had given it away to Torchwick.

" _Get to your places, we are leaving now!"_ Torchwick's voice came over a speaker. The train stirred, the old wheels screeching as they began to turn.

"Waddaya think they're doing?" Sun asked.

Sage was already running towards the back of the train. "Whatever it is, it isn't good!" He leaped into the last car and beckoned for them to follow. Neptune looked to the rest of his team; with a shrug, they took off, Scarlet using the hook in the grip of his gun to hasten his approach.

Neptune just managed to grab onto the back before the train accelerated too far for him to catch up. He climbed up on top of the rear car, just in time to see the rest of the team leaping over onto the next. "Hurry up!" called Sun.

"There's a bomb in the car!" called Scarlet.

"Just _one_ moment to breathe would be nice," muttered Neptune, following them over to the next car. Almost the very moment he landed the jump, the previous car disconnected.

"They really don't want us on here," observed Scarlet.

There was a beeping sound that only just registered in Neptune's hearing. He followed it to a hatch in the middle of the car. "Another bomb," he said, just as the first bomb exploded.

"What the hell are they doing?" said Sage.

Sun was already over on the next car. "More bombs!" he called back to them. "They all have bombs! Get over here!"

"Sun! Look out!" Sage yelled, leaping the gap.

There was a White Fang climbing onto the roof of the train behind Sun. He turned, whipping his staff around to clobber the faunus in the face. There were more further along the train: "Get the humans!" yelled one.

"That rules me out, then," said Sun with a grin.

Neptune brought up his rifle and fired off a trio of shots, each catching a White Fang square in the chest and knocking them off their feet. Ahead of him, Scarlet rushed over onto the next car, firing off shots from his own pistol; after another quick barrage, Neptune followed suit, the last car detaching moments before he made the jump. As a team, they rushed forwards, putting as much ground between themselves and the dwindling rear of the train as they could, knocking aside any White Fang who got in their way.

The rooves were cleared quickly – as Neptune finally took a moment to breathe, another explosion rocked the tunnel.

Then roars.

They looked back. Grimm were pouring out of holes in the walls and in the ceiling left by the explosions.

"Wonderful," muttered Sage.

"What's he trying to do? Where's this train going?" Scarlet asked.

"Hey, don't ask me man," said Neptune. "Sun. Plan?"

"Oh, this one's a _great_ plan, let me tell you – the best plan-"

"Stop the train?" Sage deadpanned.

"Yeah. That's the plan," said Sun.

Further ahead, near the front of the train, a bunch of robots leapt up onto the roof; Neptune recognised them as the same ones from their little jaunt in Vale.

"Might I suggest we go _through_ the train instead of over it?" said Neptune.

"Sounds good to me," said Sun. Scarlet and Sage shrugged their approval, and they dropped into the car.

"There's an emergency brake here," said Sage. Sure enough, there was one on the wall. He stepped over to it and turned the lever. It spun freely; it must have been disconnected.

"Yeah. They thought of that."

"Front of the train, then?" Sage said sheepishly.

"Yup," said Sun, popping the 'p'.

They sprinted through the train, hearing weight footsteps on the roof above them. Occasionally, gunfire rained down through the roof as the Paladins tried to lock them down, but it was too difficult for them to track the Huntsmen, and it was little more than a nuisance. Eventually, they came to a car without a bomb. Halfway to the door, their path was blocked by a diminutive girl with mismatched eyes, a parasol, and a vicious smile.

"Oh. Hey," said Neptune.

"Keep her off us, Neptune," said Sage, clapping him on the shoulder.

"Got it."

"She's dangerous, remember? Don't take risks," Sun warned him.

"I won't."

"I mean it."

"Don't worry man. I got it," said Neptune. "I _got_ it."

"You better," muttered Sun. Then they ran onwards. Neptune fired off a couple of blasts at Neo as they dashed past her, and she was forced to defend, opening her parasol towards him. His shots dissipated on its surface.

"I'm happy to sit here and shoot at you if you try to follow them," called Neptune. "So if we're both happy to just sit tight…"

Neo's smile turned into a pout, and she shook her head at him.

"No?"

Neo shrugged, then drew her thumb across her throat.

"You want to kill me?"

She shook her head again and opened her mouth, miming screaming, then pointed at Neptune, a smug smile on her face.

"Oh." _Just pain. No death. Or maybe both?_

She nodded vigorously and began walking towards him slowly, her parasol speaking for her as she trailed the sharp tip along the floor.

/-/

Sun, Sage, and Scarlet continued onwards. Charging over to the next car, they found three White Fang grunts, their guns trained on the doorway.

"Look, gents, there's no need to- okay, nevermind!" Sun started forwards, at first trying to placate them, but he was forced to bring out his staff to deflect the gunfire. Sage and Scarlet dashed past him, quickly knocking out the Fang.

"No time to play nice," Sage growled.

"Worth a try," Sun shrugged.

The first thing they heard upon entering the next train car was a strange shuddering, a rapid whirring like a chainsaw. Then they saw him: a giant of a faunus, dragging his weapon (and, indeed, it _was_ a chainsaw) along the floor sending sparks flying by his feet.

"I got this one," Sage said, putting on speed. He broke ahead of Scarlet and Sun, bringing up his greatsword in a lumbering, powerful strike. The Fang was forced onto his back foot, though he returned the assault whole-heartedly not moments later.

"Go!" Sage roared. Scarlet and Sun obliged. The door to the next car opened for them. It closed behind them, masking the sound of the chainsaw.

"Hello there, monkey boy," said Roman Torchwick, spinning his cane obnoxiously. "Ya miss me?"

"Uh-"

"I tell you what, I'd miss me. So – who's the boyfriend?"

Sun and Scarlet shared a look. "I'll handle him," said Sun. "You stop the train."

"Got it."

They charged together. Sun split his staff into gunchucks as he ran and began his assault the moment he reached the flamboyant criminal, ramping up the speed of his attacks faster than he ever had before. Roman matched his pace, his eyes narrowed and jaw clenched, cane darting back and forth to knock aside the weapons before they could do serious damage to him. It didn't take long for it wear Sun's stamina down, and in the brief reprieve Roman turned, reversing the grip on his cane, and the handle shot out, catching Scarlet in the shoulder.

"The train's on a tight sched-argh!" Sun used the distraction to kick Roman backwards. "You little street-rat!" He paused. "Is that racist?"

"I'm clearly a-"

"I don't care." Roman moved between Scarlet and the door and pointed his cane at Sun. "Your aura's not looking great, kid," he said. "Stay back."

"How do you know?"

"Trade secret."

Sun checked his scroll: his aura was hovering a little above fifty percent – not dangerous, but not good either. Sage and Scarlet were doing fine.

Neptune's was low, and even as he watched it dropped lower.

His mouth set in a grim line, and he turned his gunchucks back into a staff. "Plan B," said Scarlet. "We take him together."

"Cute. The power of love and friendship – I'm _sure_ it'll work out just fine," mocked Torchwick.

/-/

Neptune was having a bad day.

It was a real struggle to keep the little minx off him – she was too damn fast, and slippery too. He'd found one, maybe two openings to strike back, but none of his attacks connected – or, if they did, they bounced harmlessly off her damn parasol. Meanwhile, she ran (or rather, _danced_ ) circles around him, no single blow doing enough to incapacitate him, but slowly wearing him down all the same.

And she wore that stupid mocking grin the whole time. She was _loving_ this. Neptune suspected that if she wasn't enjoying his frantic attempts to defend himself, she'd have already knocked him out. Or killed him.

His back to the wall, he fended aside a flurry of kicks with his trident, one or two connecting with his midriff but the bulk glancing aside. An opportunity presented itself; a more powerful kick than the norm from overhead (and how she'd achieved that feat of acrobatics, Neptune would never understand) missed, slamming into the floor by his side. Improvising, he went for a kick of his own. She dodged, of course, moving away from him with a hurt expression on her face, but it bought him some room.

His trident transformed back into a rifle. He didn't even bring it up into position before starting to fire, a volley of shots which dissipated off her parasol. He kept shooting, circling around so he had the entire length of the car to retreat down should he need it, then leapt forwards, his rifle transforming back into a guando, and from there into a trident. He stabbed forwards, tearing straight through the fabric of the parasol.

Neo's eyes spoke of murder.

She charged him, flipping into a somersault just before she reached him. Her legs wrapped around his neck and she spun, building momentum, before flinging him upwards towards the roof.

Then there was a sound like the end of the world in his ears; a screeching, shuddering cacophony that drowned out all other sounds.

 _We've hit something,_ he realised.

The opposite wall was bending and warping and rushing to meet him. Pain registered – his shoulder hit the metal first.

Then the world went dark.

/-/

An alarm sounded.

Ciaran's alarm, to be precise.

"That means we should wake up," Ciaran groaned.

"I'm awake," he muttered, pushing himself out of his bed. It hadn't been terribly comfortable, but his back wasn't too sore. "Dunno about you."

"Just… gimme a minute."

"Wow." She didn't sound too good. "Hangover?"

"Just irritable."

"That's my line."

"What's yours is mine." She sighed, then sat up, rubbing her temples.

"Ready for another _exciting_ day of doing nothing?" Artorias drawled.

"Sure. This may be a surprise to you, but I don't mind doing nothing. You, on the other hand, have to play spotter for Gough."

"Exactly. Doing nothing." He groaned and stretched, easing out the kinks in his muscles, then reached for his jerkin. "We've got an hour, right?"

"Did I not set the alarm for six-thirty?"

"Didn't you?"

"Of course I did," she snapped.

Artorias breathed deeply. It certainly felt like six-thirty. The air was fresh and cold, and while it wasn't strictly _dark_ outside, very little light filtered through the blinds. But still – he'd rather spend such a morning sleeping.

He'd rather spend most of his time sleeping, to be fair.

"You three go… do whatever."

"Get breakfast?"

"Yeah. That. I've got to make a call," he lied.

"Really." It wasn't a question, more of an expression of disbelief. "A call?"

"Yup. A call."

"If you say so. Remember, east gate, one hour."

"Yeah, yeah," he said, already heading to the door, adjusting the strap on his pauldron. "I'll be there."

/-/

 _Why?_

"Wake up."

Lautrec came around slowly, his eyes blinking sluggishly. Aura could do much to stave off the effects of time, but that didn't mean he hadn't aged. For one, he couldn't drink like he used to.

And how much had he drunk to end up in a cell?

It came rushing back to him. The wolf from Izalith. This was his fault, surely. And he'd known, too. He'd known about Anastacia. Or he'd worked it out. Lautrec's memory was fuzzy on that little detail.

 _Why?_

Either way – that explained the cell.

So that, at least, wasn't a direct result of drinking.

"I said wake up."

Lautrec peered out through the bars of his cell. The wolf was out there, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed.

"I don't believe I ever caught your name," said Lautrec.

"Artorias," said the wolf simply. "And you're Lautrec. Introductions are over."

Lautrec settled onto his cot. "So. Been a while."

"Smalltalk's over too."

"I think it's supposed to go good cop, _then_ bad cop," quipped Lautrec. "You're jumping the gun a bit."

"I'm not the cop," said Artorias. "When I haul you back to Beacon, Ozpin and Ironwood can play good cop bad cop."

"General Ironwood?" That was interesting. And possibly useful, too. He had no love for Atlas, but if he wanted protection…

 _Why?_

"Why did you kill Anastacia?"

"Really – this again?" Lautrec snorted. "It was personal."

Artorias shrugged. "How, then? And when?"

Lautrec sighed. "It was the day before the attack. I went to her home, told her why I was killing her, then I killed her."

 _Why?_

And then he'd blacked out.

And the voices had started.

"You were in Izalith for at least a year," Artorias pointed out. "Why did you wait?"

"I think you'll find that that's none of your business," Lautrec sneered. Truth be told, he was convincing himself to do it. He'd searched for her so long – and then it had taken another year to convince himself it was really worth finishing it.

"I'll leave that one for bad cop, then," Artorias dismissed. "Where'd you run off to after Izalith?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Why not?"

"Because _he_ came," said Lautrec. "The knight who commands the Grimm. Where ever I ran, he followed."

Artorias paused, clearly discomforted by the notion. "I never heard of him attacking anywhere else."

"That's because nowhere else had survivors to tell of him," said Lautrec. "Not since Izalith."

"Except you."

"Except me."

"He's hunting you, isn't he?"

Lautrec lay down in his cot again. "How did you find out?"

"Don't change the subject."

"That I killed Anastacia, I mean."

Artorias paused, considering his words carefully. "What you said – control, and fate, and power. What else could you have meant?"

"You wouldn't know unless you'd been there. Been _exactly_ where I was," said Lautrec. Standing over someone, their fate hanging from a rope of whims.

 _Why?_

Artorias pursed his lips. "I'll tell you my story if you tell me yours."

"See, I don't particularly care. But I _did_ think there was a story there," said Lautrec offhandedly. And now at least he knew when the ball had dropped. Artorias hadn't known until last night.

"Last night, I swear I saw something – like a second aura _under_ your skin-"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Lautrec lied.

"I'm sure you don't."

"You'll leave it to bad cop, then?" Lautrec asked, eyebrow raised.

"I'll leave it to bad cop."

A bell rang outside.

"He'll be coming here, won't he?" Artorias asked.

The bell rang again.

"Three tolls mean Grimm," said Lautrec.

The bell tolled.

 _Why?_

Artorias' scroll buzzed in his pocket. "Stay here," said the wolf. "We'll handle it."

"I'm not going anywhere."

/-/

"Artorias!"

" _I hear you."_

Gilderoy stabbed at a lone Boarbatusk as it rolled at him, cracking the bone plates straight through.

" _Orders?"_ Well, in a time of crisis, Artorias didn't play around. Not too much, at least.

"Grimm are coming in through the north gate. I've sent Gough to reinforce the militia. Ciaran and I are cleaning up any Grimm who broke through the line. Go help Gough."

" _Goughing to help Go and going to help Gough. I'm on it."_ Artorias ended the call.

Gil pocketed his scroll as he reached a crossroads; ahead and to his left, the path was clear, but he could hear the sounds of combat to the right. He ran down the street, channelling his aura into his coat, then turned another corner.

The next road led into the main square, where a trio of Ursae were being held back by the earl, wielding a spear with a small crossguard and a strangely twisted blade. "Back!" he roared. Blood leaked from a long gash on his midriff. Behind him, townsfolk cowered back.

 _The king braved the horde alone._

A string of letters and runes about his sleeves blazed with furious light. Gilderoy pointed his bident behind him and fired off two blasts, propelling him forwards. At the last moment before he reached the Ursae, he flipped the weapon around to stab the largest of the three through the back of the head, using its body as a fulcrum to pivot over and around, landing between the earl and the remaining two Ursae. One snarled and swiped at him: he dodged left, then leaned forwards into its guard, and a quick twirl of his weapon severed arm from body.

The earl moved forwards to join him only to catch the bite of the other Ursa on his shoulder. His aura – a sickly brownish red – sputtered and sparked to life, preventing further damage, and he stabbed upwards with his spear through the pain to impale the Ursa through the jaw.

The last Ursa, missing an arm, was finished off quickly with a shotgun blast to the temple.

The earl caught Gilderoy's questioning look as the gash on his torso began to heal. "I've a rather complicated semblance," he said, shrugging.

"Hmm. Tell me about it," Gilderoy muttered.

The earl chuckled quietly to himself. "We run Grimm drills regularly," he said. "Everyone knows to gather here."

"Good," said Gilderoy. It'd mean less work chasing down stragglers, on his part. "Do you have ships?"

"We're prepared," said the earl. "No ships, but there's a tunnel running from here to the quarry. We can escape into the mountains from there, or wait for a ship."

"Hopefully that won't be necessary," muttered Gilderoy. "Stay here and guard your people. We'll hold the gate."

/-/

It was oh-so-satisfying.

Precisely six Creeps came charging down the street at Ciaran. Ciaran's revolver had room for precisely six bullets.

All six hit. All six killed.

It felt _damn_ good.

She reloaded her gun, holding it at the ready in her left hand, her gold tracer in the right – a wickedly curved blade just too long to be called a dagger and just too short to be called a shortsword. The eastern end of Carim was to be her jurisdiction. She was almost certain that it was now clear, but the eastern gatehouse was close – she could get a better view of the area from there.

She rounded a corner, two, before reaching the eastern gate. Stairs led up onto the walls, and she bounded up them three at a time, then ran into the gatehouse, up another set of stairs, and onto the roof.

She was right. The area was clear – at least from what she could see. And if her memory hadn't failed her, she'd been down every one of those streets already, so there was a slim chance of there being any Grimm hiding in the shadows of the buildings.

Which meant that it was now her job to reinforce Artorias and Gough at the north gate. Just as she was about to set off, a cawing caught her attention. She looked up.

There was a nevermore – giant, its wings filling the sky and blotting out the sun. And what was that in its grasp?

Was that a man?

The figure was dropped over the town. It landed behind a building, obscuring him from Ciaran's sight.

 _That's not good._

/-/

 _This isn't good,_ thought Gough. Artorias was below him, wielding dagger and greatsword – planting the dagger in bone and ground and granite wall to use as a pivot-point, flinging him all over the battlefield, a whirlwind of death. The militia – most of whom had no aura – had rallied behind him. Two had died before their arrival. But still, there were maybe a dozen left, with a motley of guns and swords and spears, in varying states of injury.

By all rights, it should have been going fine.

Then the Goliath came crashing out of the treeline, up the hill towards them.

"Shoot it!" roared Artorias.

Gough obliged.

The first arrow struck it square between the eyes, but bounced off the thick plate of bone. The Goliath let out a great trumpeting sound, and its burning red eyes locked on Gough. Its pace picked up, charging straight at him.

He changed tactic, shooting straight for the knee. The arrow stuck, but the Goliath did not falter, seeming only to pick up speed.

The other knee, then. Again, the Goliath didn't care. And it was getting close, now. Three members of Carim's militia had already broken ranks, fleeing deeper into the town.

As it drew closer, Gough came to realise just how truly _massive_ it was. Its knees were probably as tall as the very wall on which he stood, its shoulders as tall as one of the dorm blocks back at Shade. If it reached the town, it would _crush_ them. All of them.

"Shoot it!" Artorias yelled again, himself knee-deep in Grimm.

Gough nocked another arrow and aimed for its mouth. The Goliath _caught_ it with its trunk and snapped it in two.

"Gough!" Gough looked down behind him. Gilderoy had arrived, stabbing a Beowolf through the chest and then blasting him up onto the wall with his bident rather than taking the stairs. "Shoot me."

"Hmm?"

"Not _literally_ – the grav-dust arrows!"

"Oh."

It was a crazy plan. The kind he'd expect from Artorias, not Gil.

Risky – but he trusted Gil's judgement.

He reached into his quiver and nocked the arrow. It had been modified slightly since early testing with Ruby – the wooden shaft had been shaved down towards the middle and wrapped with leather for a tighter grip. If it hadn't been shaved down, the leather would have caught on the bow itself – but it left the arrow extremely fragile and delicate.

He'd tested the new design twice. It had worked, though not as well as he'd intended.

No time for doubts now. The Goliath was getting closer every second. He drew back the bow. Gilderoy grabbed the grip with one hand and couched his bident with his other arm like a lance.

"Aim for its eye," said Gilderoy. Then he closed his eyes, and his mouth began to move, uttering quiet canticles. He began to glow and spark with lightning.

Gough breathed deeply, took aim… then fired, exhaling at the same time.

Gilderoy shot through the air, crackling like a lightning bolt. His bident bit deep into the Goliath's left eye. The ginormous Grimm trumpeted thunder, its trunk flailing about. But its charge continued, even as its legs gave way and it collapsed under its own weight, gouging a great trench through the ground.

It hit the wall with all the force of a battering ram.

Gough felt the wall beneath him shift and tremble. Then it gave, spidery cracks from the point of impact spreading all along, the granite collapsing in on itself. He leapt backwards and away, landing on the street, but the wall threatened to fall on top of him, and he backed further away.

"Gil!" he roared. The gatehouse fell too, collapsing over the empty iron frame of the gate. "Artorias!"

"Woo!" Artorias howled back, laughing. He must have pushed forwards past the gatehouse, for now he retreated over the rubble. "I got him, Gough!" He was supporting a dazed and stumbling, but still conscious Gilderoy with his left arm. "That was awesome!"

Gilderoy coughed and spluttered before easing out from Artorias' arm. "I'm fine," he said, "but we need to get out of here." He was right: more Grimm were climbing over the collapsed portion of the wall. They wouldn't be able to bottleneck them from here.

"Call Ciaran," Gilderoy groaned. "Tell her to retreat to the square."

"Are you alright?" Artorias asked, concern written on his face. He was lifting a piece of rubble that had trapped one of Carim's militia; the man was still conscious, but clearly in shock, murmuring thanks as though his crushed legs were no big deal. Furthermore, he tried to _stand_ on them.

They'd need to be amputated, Gough realised. They wouldn't heal. Not unless they activated his aura - something they couldn't risk here, and even then... chances were slim.

"Gough, carry him," said Gilderoy. Their leader seemed to shake himself and snap out of his stupor. "Artorias, call Ciaran."

"Just a _moment_ …" Artorias spun, slashing at a Beowolf as it leapt at him, the first of the new wave of Grimm.

"We have to go," said Gough, slinging the wounded man over his shoulder and backhanding a creep away.

"Going Gough and goughing Go," Artorias quipped, dialling in a number as he jogged. "Ciaran? Hey – long time no see, but did you see that Goliath? Awesome, right?"

" _Really bad time."_ Gough didn't even think it was on speaker, but he heard her voice clearly.

"Yeah – I know the feeling," said Artorias. "We're pulling back to the square."

" _Quiet,"_ she said. _"Listen closely."_ Artorias put it on speaker and held it up to his ear.

There was a clash of steel on steel. There was someone there – and they weren't fighting Grimm.

Artorias got the implication as well. His eyes widened in panic. "Lautrec… Ciaran, where are you?"

" _Outside the-"_ another clang masked her words.

"Regroup with me," Artorias commanded. "I'm on my way – keep the line open. Gough, get Gil and… that guy – what's your name?"

The injured man groaned something indiscernible.

"Get 'hnnng' to safety," Artorias said.

"Ciaran, are you safe?" Gilderoy asked. He seemed to have mostly recovered, his speech no longer slow and slurred.

" _More or less."_

"Pull back to the square."

"Belay that," Artorias said. "I'm on my way. Keep the line open."

"Artorias!"

The wolf took off down a side street.

"Artorias!" Gilderoy roared again. "We don't have time!" He started down the street after him, but winced as he put too much weight on his right leg. With a snarl he pushed himself up, using his bident as a staff, then flipped it to shoot a charging Boarbatusk before it reached him.

"They'll be fine," Gough assured him. "We need to go."

"They'd better be."

/-/

Artorias rounded the corner. Ahead of him was the jail; in front of the jail was the knight in all his glory – including, as described in great detail by Kirk, the massive fuck-off-sword, glowing red with each swing. Lautrec was there too, fending him off with one of the metal bars that had once contained him in his cell.

" _I see you."_ Ciaran's voice came over the speaker. _"So – who do we help?"_

"Who do you think?"

" _Well, one was in jail and therefore presumably a criminal, the other was dropped by a Nevermore – not sure if that means the Nevermore was helping him or trying to kill him."_

"Did none of you see him at the inn last night? Really?"

" _Which one?"_

"The criminal. Who we're helping, by the way."

" _Got it."_ The line went dead. Ciaran leapt down from a rooftop, firing off two shots from her revolver mid-air before drawing her silver tracer and slashing at the knight's back. Artorias charged too, drawing his greatsword and wielding it two-handed.

The knight kicked Lautrec away and turned to face him. His smaller blade, held in the right hand, locked with Artorias' sword.

For a moment, they engaged in a test of strength. Artorias won out when the knight was distracted by Ciaran stabbing at the chinks in his armour, although her blades did not pierce his angry deep-orange aura. But, to his credit, the knight recovered quickly, swiping behind him with the fuck-off sword. Ciaran barely dodged the blow.

"Get Lautrec out of here," Artorias growled, pressing his assault. "Don't let him out of your sight."

"Who?"

"The fucking criminal!"

"What about-"

"I'll be fine," Artorias said. "Trust me."

She seemed uncertain, but nodded. Lautrec was already halfway down the street, running away. Ciaran followed him.

The knight backed off a bit and reset, readying his weapons.

"Who are you?" Artorias asked.

The knight did not respond.

"Why are you chasing Lautrec?"

The knight's left arm seemed to tense, and the fuck-off sword (which was now Artorias' unofficial name for the thing) came arcing down towards him.

Instincts screamed at him to roll, and he did, coming up just in time to catch the smaller sword on the back of his gauntlet. He hooked his left arm around the knight's right and tried to throw him; the effort backfired somewhat when he found the knight heavier than expected. The fuck-off sword was left impaled in the ground, and the knight's left fist slammed into his shoulder, breaking the grapple.

He backed off. The knight pulled his sword from the ground.

Artorias drew his dagger.

The knight stalked towards him, but Artorias was the one to reengage, leaping high into the air and coming crashing down, greatsword held before him. The knight lifted his smaller sword towards him, but Artorias knocked it aside with his dagger. The greatsword missed; the dagger did not, catching the knight on the right hand and tearing through his gauntlet. He hit the ground behind the knight, rolling to his feet – and was promptly knocked off his feet once more by the fuck-off sword.

"Fuck off," Artorias muttered.

He pushed himself back to his feet. The knight's grip on the smaller sword seemed loose – he must have done more damage than he'd thought, even through aura.

He gritted his teeth and charged again, hurdling over a sweeping blow from the fuck-off sword and slamming into the knight bodily, knocking him back a few feet, then swiping towards his right arm with his greatsword. He hit, and the smaller sword fell from the knight's hand. Artorias pressed the advantage, sheathing his dagger again and wielding his greatsword two-handed, ducking and weaving through the slower strikes the knight tried to retaliate with, scoring blow after blow on the knight's breastplate.

The knight ended the exchange by leaping backwards and dragging his sword along the ground two handed and then flinging it upwards.

Artorias deployed his shield to block the strike.

It didn't matter.

Artorias found himself airborne. He came crashing down on the roof of the jail, landing on his back and cursing under his breath. Perhaps he was in over his head.

He pushed himself to his feet and checked his scroll. His aura was at about twenty percent – he could keep going.

And, it seemed, he'd have to. The knight leapt up onto the roof with him, small sword now sheathed at his side, and fuck-off sword somehow becoming even more fuck-off by now being on _fire._

Artorias cursed again. His shield folded back into a gauntlet, and he gripped his sword tightly in both hands. The knight did the same.

"What was in Izalith? Why Lautrec?"

The knight didn't care to answer, and marched towards him. Artorias levelled his sword, holding it back – then lunged forwards with a roar. The knight let go of his sword with his right hand and battered aside Artorias' blade with the back of his gauntlet; Artorias pushed the limb away to throw him off balance, then brought his greatsword crashing down on the fuck-off sword before the knight could ready a strike. Wild, reckless swings kept the knight's guard open, and Artorias landed multiple powerful blows on his neck and shoulders and arms.

His aura sparked and pulsed with every blow, yet nothing seemed to deter the knight.

His right arm shot out, ignoring Artorias' attempt to cut it off, and gripped around Artorias' throat. Artorias dropped his sword as the knight's grip tightened. He lifted Artorias' feet off the ground and carried him to the edge of the building, holding him over the drop. Not that it was a particularly big drop. But it would still hurt.

And that wasn't even counting all the Grimm who had gathered beneath him.

Artorias' hands scrabbled at the hand around his throat. Grimm he could deal with. Falls, he could probably also deal with. But choking?

He'd never been choked before. Well, not in this context. And now that it was happening, he found that he _really_ didn't like it.

"I do not kill without my lady's permission," the knight said. He had a surprisingly smooth voice – his diction refined. "But they have no such qualms." His head tilted downwards to indicate the Grimm.

His vision was fading. In a last ditch effort, Artorias reached behind him, grabbed his dagger, and brought it down in a stabbing motion on the knight's arm above the gauntlet, where flesh was protected only by pale green cloth.

It broke through the knight's aura.

The knight grunted in pain and let Artorias go. He gasped for air even as he fell, his left hand coming up instinctively to massage his throat. But he had the presence of mind to grab onto the edge of the building with his other hand before he could fall to his death. With no small effort, he pulled himself up, dots still dancing on the edge of his vision, and collapsed onto the roof, taking two great gulps of air before pushing himself back to his feet.

He heard a familiar shotgun blast, and a streak of lightning shot past him, slamming into the knight. Steel clashed on steel noisily. The knight was pushed off balance towards him; Artorias grabbed him by the back of the helm and brought his knee up to the knight's face. He felt something crack – hopefully, his skull, but more likely it was his helm. Gil struck him again in the back, and the knight tumbled off the roof into the horde of Grimm.

"Artorias!"

"Yeah…"

"What part of 'we're leaving' don't you understand?"

"The leaving part?"

"Don't smartmouth me. Ciaran told me you stayed behind – gods, you're an idiot, Nym."

He bent down, wincing from the pressure on his leg, and grabbed Artorias sword, pressing it into his hands. He muttered something under his breath, and the dust around his feet lit up. He straightened up, and leaned on his leg as though to test it. He nodded, satisfied. "We have to go," he said.

"Ground floor's out," said Artorias.

"No shit," growled Gil. "Can you make that jump?" he gestured over to the next roof.

"Can I?"

"I'm not in the mood for jokes."

"I can manage it."

"Good. I'm not saving your ass if you fall." Gilderoy took off, his dust-aided speed letting him clear the jump with ease. Artorias leapt after him, looking down as he crossed the street.

The knight was already gone.

/-/

They didn't stop running until they emerged at the other end of the tunnel, in Carim's quarry. Artorias had the brief satisfaction of knowing his suspicions were correct. Bullheads had been called, apparently, and they arrived at much the same time as Artorias and Gil. Ciaran and Gough were already on one – Gough holding Lautrec tightly by the arm (and again, he could swear that his arm was glowing where Gough held it). Gilderoy shoved Artorias into one of the Bullheads before following him in, collapsing against the opposite wall.

"Why did you stay?" Gilderoy asked, his voice low and dangerous.

"Is this really the time to fight?"

"Do you have a death wish? I gave you an _order_ , Artorias."

"And I disobeyed it. Oops."

"You almost died!"

"But I didn't. Isn't that what matters? I'm alive, Gil. You worry too much."

"No, I worry exactly the right amount!" he said. "You would be dead. What about that don't you understand?"

"His aura was down! I was… fine."

"He almost dropped you into a horde of Grimm! That's not _fine_ to me."

"What do you want from me? I'm _alive._ I… _probably_ would have survived anyway. Besides – I thought I was _replaceable,_ " Artorias snarled.

Gilderoy recoiled as though struck. "That's not what I meant and you know it."

"Is it because I wouldn't follow your orders?" Artorias knew he was aiming low, but he kept going. "Is it because you wanted to be General Gilderoy Ornstein, and I wouldn't play soldier? Fuck – do you even know-"

"That's not the point!"

"Isn't it?" Vaguely, he was aware of the civilians on the vessel cowering away from them. "Do you even know _how_ you're going to pull of your stupid Vacuo dream? Has it even crossed your mind that the world doesn't fall in line because _you_ tell it to?"

"You won't always have someone to save you!" Gilderoy yelled. "You're an arrogant, petulant _child_ trying to play hero, and one of these days you'll go racing off for a fight and _nobody_ follow you! Nobody will think it's worth saving your useless, shallow life! Not me, not Specialist Schnee-"

"Fuck you," Artorias spat. "That's not what happened. You weren't there."

"I can picture it. I bet you were _this_ close to getting your worthless ass kicked before she-"

"Give me a picture, then. What did it look like? Huh?"

"It's-"

"It's you charging in with an airship and some cavalry because _General Ornstein_ is Vacuo's greatest hero. That's your picture. Because you're so self-obsessed-"

"I'm self-obsessed? Look in the mirror, Nym! What have you ever done for someone else? You always think of yourself first. What was that back there? Artorias Nym, the noble wolf knight, doing such an _excellent_ job of saving the day because he thinks _nobody else can_."

"Fuck off."

"You know I'm right!"

"I wanted answers! That's all I ever wanted." He took off the ring on his right hand.

"What did you get then, huh? Who the fuck was that guy?"

"I don't know."

"Good job," Gilderoy applauded sarcastically. "I can see you _really_ outdid yourself."

"Give me your fucking picture. What happened? How do _you_ think it happened?"

"Don't change the subject."

"What do you think happened?" Artorias repeated.

Gilderoy paused. "It was just a-"

"Just a worthless insult, because you don't have _anything_ true to tell me," Artorias spat. "Give me a _fucking picture._ "

"You give _me_ a picture. Who do you think I am?"

"Who do you think _you_ are? Capable, stern, commanding, noble, Gilderoy fucking Ornstein, I bet. You're a dreamer with no foundation in reality, Gil. _How_ are you going to achieve your vision of a new Vacuo? How?"

"Arthur Quill was a scared, misguided man and you cut him down because you thought it was what _heroes_ do!" Ornstein spat. "Because you're too obsessed with your own image of 'the wolf knight'!"

"Arthur Quill was a vindictive cruel _bastard_ who walked out of my life when I was five and who I didn't see for twelve years!" Artorias roared. "Arthur Quill was a wolf faunus with silver hair and a ring _just like this_ , and he was fucking terrified, let me tell you." He was breathing heavily.

He could remember it clear as day. The glyph at his feet, propelling him forwards. The wide eyes behind a cracked mask.

"I wanted him to feel what I felt when I found out he wasn't coming back. I wanted him to feel what I felt when my mother told me what he was _really_ like. I wanted him to know that everything he had ever made and everything he had ever wanted was in ruins, and I was all that was left, and that I wanted him _dead._ Call me selfish, if you want. But I don't see myself as a hero."

Gilderoy was silent for a time. "I don't know," he said at last.

"Hmm?"

"I guess I always hoped things would… I don't know, fall into place." He laughed, but his heart wasn't in it. "I've never felt challenged by anything before, you know. Not until I met you." He sighed. "I suppose I should finally start treating Vacuo as a challenge too."

"Or you could give up," Artorias suggested.

"Artorias…" Gil growled.

Artorias laughed. "I'm kidding. Besides, we've still got a year until graduation."

"That's not the right attitude."

"I've never really had the right attitude," said Artorias. He sighed. "Thanks, Gil. I think I needed that."

"Yeah. I did too. Look – if you want to talk-"

"That's enough talking for a lifetime," said Artorias, "but thanks."

They sat in silence. The Bullhead hummed quietly.

"Ahem?" One of the civilians caught their attention with a polite cough.

"Yes?" Gilderoy asked.

"Um, this might be a bad time, but, ah, he's sitting on my son's teddy bear," she said, pointing at Artorias. Her son - or, at least, he assumed it was her son - sat in her lap, watching them with wide eyes.

"Oh. Shit. Sorry."

"And if you could keep the swearing to a minimum…?"

"My bad."

* * *

 **Phew. Long chapter. I chose to cut away from the Breach transition, but y'all know how it goes, so it's not really a cliffhanger.**

 **Uh, what else? Raime stacked poise, and had a bit of a Pursuer moment entering Carim. Oh, I'm _so_ keen for more Raime. Right now, he's got one more scene planned for V2. No real badassery, but important for his character.**

 **So. Quill. The patricide reveal was originally going to happen with a very drunk Artorias confessing to Winter mid-V3, spurred on by their recent interrogation with Lautrec (in which Lautrec interrogates them just as much). I prefer this version with Art and Gil. Arguments are fun to write - one argument leads to another, to another, and then back to the first, and nobody's really sure what they were angry about in the first place. Anyway,** **now that it's out there, a lot of Art's dialogue makes more sense - particularly his call with Winter during the dance arc.**

 **His backstory had a very _minor_ retcon between the prologue and chapter one - originally, I intended to have Morgan already know that Quill went on to join the White Fang. That being said, reading back over the prologue, you probably wouldn't have ever noticed the change without me telling you. You know, I almost chickened out of the whole thing entirely - thought I might be accused of stealing the old classic 'villain is the father' trope (praise based Vader). But the patricide part of the deal felt right to me, so I kept going, and here we are.**

 **Actually, thinking about it, patricide and estranged father figures are fairly prevalent themes in this story. Hmm. What does that say about me?**

 **Next chapter - June 30th.**


	18. Chapter 17: Breach

Team RWBY were at the Bullheads early the next morning, despite their late-night mission. They had another busy day ahead of them. First, Yarrow – at long last. Then, in the afternoon, they were to meet Vengarl again for a debriefing with the council.

Not that she was particularly excited on that count. But, as Vengarl informed them – not every moment of their careers would be spent chasing down Grimm. Private security was a common task, though it wouldn't always be for one of the kingdoms' governments. And, in such situations, issuing a report was important.

Allegedly.

Admittedly, Vengarl had seemed just as unenthusiastic about the idea of a debriefing as Ruby. But he'd still recognised the necessity, and asked them to do the same.

"Hold up," said Yang, yawning, "it's JNPR." The other team was over at another landing pad, already loading onto their Bullhead. Given that Yarrow wasn't an official mission, Team RWBY would have to wait for one of the scheduled round trips between Beacon and Vale.

Yang cleared her throat with a cough. "Wow, what a fantastic, _world saving_ mission we went on last night – right girls?"

Even from the other landing pad, Ruby heard Nora's cry of despair.

"That seems unnecessary," said Blake.

"Eh, maybe. But it was fun."

"Speaking of world-saving," said Weiss, "how do you think Neptune's team is doing?"

"Oh, _Neptune's_ team?" Yang leered. "Not Team SSSN? Not Sun's team? Not… those other guys' team? Nep-"

Weiss covered Yang's mouth with a hand. "I get it."

"They're probably fine," said Ruby. "I mean, they had a plan, right? I bet-"

She paused. What was that whirring sound? Like a horn, high pitched, echoing from Vale.

It was the alarm.

The Grimm assault alarm.

Blake sighed. "Yarrow's gonna have to wait again."

A short answer from Yang. "Yup."

"There's space on our Bullhead!" Jaune called over to them, leaning out the back of the ship. "Come on!"

Any weariness they'd felt before left them. They had a job to do.

/-/

Vengarl took his picture off the wall and wrapped it in cloth before laying it gently in his pack. Checkout was at ten. Then he just had to sit around Vale for a while until the debriefing – then it was back to the road. He made his way over to the little hotel kitchen, wherein bacon was sizzling in a pan. It was just about done, and it joined the eggs and toast on his plate. He made his way over to the table, now clear of maps and plans, and sat down to eat.

There was a little bundle of fur staring up at him, tongue lolling.

"No - dog, you've already eaten." He didn't know the dog's name, so he'd taken to simply calling it 'dog'. Monosyllabic. Easy to remember. And besides, Miss Rose would likely call him the moment she remembered – or, failing that, she could take him back after they met with the council.

Dog jumped up into his lap.

"Fine." He cut a little bit of bacon off and held it in front of Dog's face. Dog wolfed it down, let out a happy little yap, then slid back down to the floor to lay down by Vengarl's feet.

"Good boy."

Just as he was raising a fork loaded with egg and toast to his mouth, an explosion rocked Vale.

Then another.

Then the alarm sounded.

He sighed, put his cutlery down, and grabbed his weapons and his pack. "Miss Rose said you had your aura unlocked," he said.

The corgi barked once.

"I won't be back before checkout. I can't leave you here."

The corgi seemed to understand, for it stood and made its way over to the door, casting one longing look back at the bacon.

"I can't believe this," Vengarl muttered, moving back to the plate to grab two rashers of bacon, giving one to Dog and eating one himself before heading once more to the door. "Don't leave my side – you hear me?"

/-/

Scarlet, picking himself up, came to the conclusion that there were a lot of Grimm.

That was an understatement. There were… oodles of Grimm. A gaggle of Grimm? A flock? Maybe if he'd paid more attention to Port, he'd know the collective noun for Grimm.

Who was he kidding? Port wouldn't have ever covered that.

He pulled himself to his feet, grabbing his pistol where it had fallen next to him. Sun lay not too far off, blood oozing from a cut on his forehead. Scarlet made his way over to him, checking for a pulse. He was alive, at least. He let out a sigh of relief and stood.

This was bad.

This was _really_ bad.

Sage and Neptune were nowhere to be found. As much as he hated to say it, he was glad that the Grimm were chasing civilians instead of killing the weakened Hunters. It was a small mercy.

"Scarlet? Sun?"

"Sage!" The green-haired boy came staggering out of the wreckage of the train, an unmoving Neptune held in his arms bridal style. "Move!"

They'd caught the attention of a pack of Beowolves. Scarlet raised his gun and used the grappling line to trip the Alpha, then fired off a precise shot at its temple, killing it quickly and efficiently. The pack continued to charge. Sage knelt, placing Neptune gently on the ground, then drew his sword.

A corgi tore through a Beowolf's throat.

"What…?"

A King Taijitu, screaming bloody murder, came tearing out of the wreckage of the train behind Sage and Neptune. He wanted to run to them, to help them – but he couldn't leave Sun alone.

"Get the wounded away!" A tall figure holding two heavy swords charged past Scarlet. "Heel! I said stay close. Get the wounded away! Here! Here!" He waved his swords towards the King Taijitu, drawing its attention. The corgi, meanwhile, was keeping the Beowolves at bay.

That wasn't a sight Scarlet had ever thought he'd see.

/-/

"Let's go, team!" called Ruby, almost the very moment she hit the ground. Honestly – was Jaune the only one who felt airsick?

Not that it ever took too long for him to recover once his feet were on solid ground. But there were still those horribly nauseating moments to deal with.

Either way, Team RWBY charged off first, Ren trailing close behind. Pyrrha waited for a second, casting a look in his direction before following. Nora had leapt from the Bullhead long before them, whooping as she went, followed by numerous explosions. Jaune almost felt sorry for any Grimm in her path.

Almost.

"Okay," he said, jogging after his team. "Who's first?"

There was a thud behind him, like footsteps.

Very heavy footsteps.

He turned, and an Ursa roared in his face.

"Totally fine…" he muttered.

The Ursa bit at him; he bashed its face with his shield, then swung at its torso with its sword. He was able to land a few hits – the Ursa didn't seem to care, swinging wildly. The first, he evaded by scooting backwards. His shield switched into a sheath, and he used it to direct another swing away from his face. There was a brief pause while he chambered a blow, then the heavy sheath came slamming into the Ursa's jaw, sending it staggering backwards, and Jaune let loose with his blade again, scoring blow after blow, roaring savagely.

The Ursa seemed stunned.

As it turned out, it was just dead. Not stunned. Just dead.

That was a victory, right?

Jaune pumped his fist into the air and dove into the melee. He could do this.

More and more students were arriving. Across the square, he could see Team RWBY guarding Team SSSN's back. Team CRDL he found by his side, and he felt a strange surge of camaraderie and pride towards them. In the distance, he swore he could see a man fighting with nothing more than a – was that a handkerchief? Well, to be fair, he had a shield too – emblazoned with the image of a sun – but a _handkerchief_?

Was it also a gun?

No, it was embedded with dust. That made a bit more sense.

Anywho – and that he could consider thinking 'anywho' in the middle of a fight was a testament to how far he'd come since his arrival at Beacon – things were starting to look not quite so bad. Sure, Grimm were still pouring out of the hole in the ground at an alarming rate, but for the most part they were successfully keeping them contained in the square. "So," he said, fighting his way towards Pyrrha, "I thought we should talk-"

"Now? Really?"

"-about what you said and what I didn't say and about where we're at." He suppressed a scream as a Boarbatusk slammed into him from behind – though it somehow worked in his favour, rocketing him straight through a Beowolf's guard. He dispatched the creature summarily. Pyrrha shot the Boarbatusk once, twice – it unrolled on the third shot, exposing vulnerable flesh, and Pyrrha ended its life.

"I appreciate it, Jaune, but I think this probably isn't the best time."

"I don't know what I want," said Jaune honestly. "I know that I like you as a friend and that I might like you as more but I don't really know for sure and I just want things to go back to the way they were and I feel horrible about not really having a proper answer but I just thought I should lay that all on the table."

"Oh, don't feel horrible!" She caught her shield as it returned from slamming an Creep in the face, then turned to him. "I'm sorry!"

"No – no, no, don't be sorry, this is my indecision and I take full responsibility," said Jaune. "I just hope – look, I want you to know where I'm at with this whole… thing, because I trust you and I care about you and I respect you too much to just leave you in the dark. We're cool, right?"

He didn't miss how her eyes lingered on him. "Jaune, no matter where we end up, I'm glad that you're in my life." Without even looking away from him, her sword transformed into a javelin, and she threw it over Jaune's shoulder.

"So am I, Pyr. Thanks." He was mid-swing when a thought occurred to him. "I mean, I am also glad that you're in my life, not that I'm glad that I'm in yours. I mean, I'm glad about that too, but what I meant was – ah, you get it."

A great whooshing sound reached his ears, and a shadow fell over the battlefield. Jaune paused – holding a Beowolf's paw at bay on his shield – and looked up.

Airships. Big airships. With guns.

 _Why does everything need a gun?_

Not that was complaining when they opened fire. The pressure on his shield lessened as the Beowolf was torn apart by the bullets – then it promptly returned stronger as the Beowolf fell on him.

"Great," Jaune muttered, pushing it off of him. Pyrrha offered him a hand, laughing pleasantly.

/-/

"Oh, I can't _believe_ that you caught me, you've really taught me the error of my ways," the criminal droned.

"Zwei!"

Vengarl was just about bowled over in the wake of Ruby's semblance as she tore past him, taking up the little corgi in her arms. Huh. Zwei. Well, it was still easy to remember.

"Oh, he's such a _good boy_ isn't he? Did you see him-"

"Yes," said Vengarl. "I saw him." Despite himself, he crouched down and gave Zwei a little pat on the head. "We're still to meet with-"

"We know, Gramps," said Yang. "Zwei wasn't too much trouble, was he?"

Zwei gave one little bark.

"Could he stay with you forever?" asked Blake.

"He was alright," said Vengarl. His eyes lingered on the boy with Crocea Mors for a moment before his gaze reached Glynda. "Excuse me," he said, leaving Team RWBY with Zwei.

"Glynda!" he called.

"Vengarl," she greeted warmly. He supposed it was the welcoming tone to her voice that drew strange looks from the students. She'd always had a reputation for being formal and distant. "Ozpin mentioned you were in town."

"I'm sure he did," muttered Vengarl. "How is Beacon?"

Glynda let out a long sigh. "The amount of paperwork this will incur – and Ozpin won't do a page of it, I assure you."

Vengarl laughed heartily. "Of course not."

"I'd love to catch up, but I really must get back to Beacon," said Glynda, turning towards one of the Bullheads.

"I had a question: the blond boy over there. He is an Arc, no?"

"An Arc? I suppose. Though I wasn't aware that the Arcs were a particularly notable family. Jaune Arc. He's improved greatly since arriving at Beacon," said Glynda. "Was there anything else?"

"No. Thank you, Glynda."

She nodded her response. The Bullhead departed.

 _He looks like Jaune._ That was what the Schnee girl had said, wasn't it?

Well – he'd met Joseph's children. It wasn't unreasonable to assume that they'd had children of their own. Although, thinking about it – that probably wasn't enough generations. Great-grandchild? Great-great-grandchild? Maybe even _great-great-great-grandchild?_

Sometimes he forgot how old he was.

He certainly didn't _feel_ that old. Aura was truly a wonderful thing.

Regardless of how many generations separated them, the boy showed promise, though he certainly had a long way to go. Maybe he'd offer the kid training, for old time's sake.

Bah. He was getting sentimental.

Whatever he decided on that front, he definitely wanted to have a word with Ozpin.

He followed Jaune's team onto a Bullhead – the same Bullhead, as it happened, as Team RWBY.

"Gramps is coming to Beacon!" cheered Yang. "Hey, can you have an old-age-off with Port?"

"Yang, please respect your elders," Weiss said.

"I mean, _I'd_ watch it. Sure, I might fall asleep, but..."

"Oh my god, Yang, please stop," said Ruby.

"Peter still works at Beacon?"

"Professor Port is our Grimm studies teacher," explained the red-haired girl next to Jaune. "And he is…"

"Rarely educational?" Vengarl provided.

"He knows our struggle," said the short ginger girl. "He _understands_!"

Weiss cleared her throat. "This is Vengarl," she introduced him. "We shadowed him for our mission."

"Ooh, you must be super cool!" said the ginger, who he was quickly gathering to be quite excitable. "They said they did some serious _world-saving_ last night. Without _us!_ "

Vengarl arched an eyebrow at Team RWBY – more specifically, Ruby.

Ruby pointed at Yang.

Yang shrugged apologetically. "It was just-"

"It was suitably world-saving," Vengarl said tersely. Yang gave him wink as the ginger girl began to cry, though her woeful outburst was cut short by an exclamation about pancakes.

Truly Beacon's finest.

"We're Team Juniper," said the Arc boy. "I'm Jaune Arc. Short, sweet, rolls off the-"

"This is P-money, Ren and her royal highness the queen," Yang said, cutting off Jaune and pointing to them one by one.

"Their real names?" Vengarl prompted.

"Ren is my real name," said Ren, though he didn't seem offended. "This is Nora Valkyrie."

"Pancakes!"

"Pyrrha Nikos, sir," said the girl, offering a little wave.

"Don't call me sir," he said automatically. Honestly – at this rate, he'd have to make a sign to tell people not to call him 'sir'. Although where he'd display it, he wasn't sure – perhaps taped to his chest?

No. That was ridiculous.

"He's like that," whispered Ruby.

So. Jaune Arc.

He was young. What age were first year students? Seventeen? He certainly seemed to have a good head on his shoulders. Vengarl had seen him during the battle. He'd been determined – a little nervous, perhaps, but determined. And he had a curious, creative fighting style – unrefined, but with potential. His team were rather interesting, especially Nora Valkyrie, but then, what team _didn't_ have its quirks?

He resolved to offer the kid some training. That would involve staying at Beacon for a while – although, he supposed, he _could_ rent another room in Vale, he'd rather not deal with that kind of commute.

And staying at Beacon would involve asking Ozpin.

If Ozpin were the spiteful type, he'd have a field day with this. As it was, Vengarl knew the old man would sip at his coffee and smile knowingly, but never gloat overtly.

"Might I speak with you in private when we land at Beacon, Mr Arc?"

"Uh… me?"

"Is there another Arc here I'm unaware of?"

"No – or at least, I don't know either. Uh, sure. I guess?"

The boy lacked confidence – or was perhaps just confused. Fair enough. They'd only just met.

"Wait," said Ruby, her brow furrowed. "Do you two know each other?"

"I think you'll find that the point of a private conversation is for things to remain private, Miss Rose," said Vengarl. "Mr Arc is free to divulge any details he sees fit afterwards."

Vengarl didn't miss the silent signal Ruby sent Jaune's way. Of _course_ she'd badger him about it.

/-/

Ozpin sipped at his coffee, looking out his office window. Below, Bullheads were landing, returning from Vale. Students poured out, most looking optimistic and cheerful about their efforts in the city.

But there was another fleet there – not Atlas'. Bullheads coming in from the east.

" _Ozpin? Ozpin!"_ He sighed and turned back to his desk.

"Yes, Councilman?"

" _You've left us with no choice. The Vytal Festival Tournament cannot be broadcast, let alone held, if we are unable to ensure the safety of the citizens."_

He sipped at his coffee. Silence was a valid response.

" _Therefore, we have reached out to the Atlas council, and together have decided that the best option is to appoint General Ironwood as head of security for the event."_

" _Thank you, Councilman."_ Ironwood's image grew larger on the projected screen. _"Our kingdom is happy to lend as many troops as it takes to ensure that this event runs as smoothly and safely as possible."_

" _And we thank you, General."_

"Will that be all?" Ozpin prompted.

" _For now. But after this festival comes to a close, we are going to have a serious discussion regarding your position at Beacon Academy. General Ironwood's reports of these last few weeks have left us somewhat… concerned. I'm sure you understand."_ The councilman ended the call, leaving Ironwood's face alone on the screen.

" _This is the right move, Ozpin. I promise. I will keep our people safe, you have to trust me."_

Then even that disappeared.

He took a long drink from his mug. Ironwood was going behind his back, then. Not necessarily a bad thing – independence could lead to results, after all, but here he'd stepped on Ozpin's toes.

Yet Ozpin couldn't bring himself to blame the man. Ozpin could trust Ironwood to do what he thought was right. That their opinions on the matter differed was certainly becoming an issue. Perhaps if James knew the full scope – knew _exactly_ what was at stake…

No. Such information would not change the General's attitude. Best to keep it in a close circle. Qrow. Glynda. June. Artorias, if June had her way.

And perhaps June was right. He could only manipulate James to a certain extent. He could ask favours, nudge in the right direction – but James would always do as he saw fit. But if Artorias knew everything – _truly_ knew everything – Ozpin could give _orders_. Until Qrow returned, he'd need an ally like that. He could acknowledge that independence had its benefits, but command would be just as vital in the days to come.

The light for the elevator blinked on his desk. "Come in," he said.

And speak of the devil…

Artorias entered the room, his hand gripped on the shoulder of a man with a gaunt face. "Morning, Professor," he said cheerily.

"It's past noon," said Ozpin.

"Good afternoon, then. Whatever."

"I was under the impression that you left for your mission yesterday," Ozpin said.

"The mission was cut short," said Artorias, his face turning serious. "Grimm invasion. Talk at the Bullheads says that there was something similar here, if a little less catastrophic."

"Unfortunately."

"Tell me about it," Artorias said, rolling his eyes.

Ozpin's attention shifted to the man in Artorias' grip. "And this is?"

"I was lead to believe there'd be one General James Ironwood here," said the man. Artorias shook him roughly.

"This is Lautrec," he said. Ozpin steepled his fingers.

"I see."

"He killed Anastacia."

Lautrec flinched.

"I see."

"And he's being hunted down by that lovely fellow in black armour."

"Which is why your mission was cut short?"

"Which is why our mission was cut short."

Lautrec remained silent.

Artorias sighed. "He wants a guarantee of protection. From the knight."

"You're not in any position to be making demands," Ozpin pointed out. "Did you not kill Anastacia?"

"Would you really let a prisoner be murdered in a cell?" Lautrec asked.

"No," Ozpin admitted. "What are the knight's tactics? How does he hunt you?"

"He called himself the Fume Knight," Lautrec said. "I got him monologuing when he found me a few villages back."

"Villages? Plural?" He'd been aware of increased Grimm activity, of multiple settlements… disappearing. Was this man the reason?

And Fume Knight… it sounded familiar, though he couldn't place it.

"There were a couple after Izalith, apparently," Artorias said, grimacing. "But wait! There's more." He grabbed Lautrec's wrist and _squeezed_ -

Something glowed beneath the skin.

It was like a second aura, in fact – but manifesting strangely, unnaturally. He couldn't be sure. It was certainly abnormal, but then, if he didn't know what it was, there was a slim chance of anybody knowing.

But a hunch was better than nothing.

"Interesting," he said. "Did the Fume Knight say anything else?"

Lautrec shrugged. "He told me I'm a terrible human being – can't argue with that – and that his Queen would be delighted to meet me. Needless to say, I didn't feel the same," he said, his voice dry and clipped.

Ozpin frowned. His Queen. There was no doubt in his mind who _that_ was. He dialled in Ironwood's number. "Thank you for your assistance, Lautrec," Ozpin said.

"I request a comfy cell. Decent food, too. Tit for tat," he drawled.

" _Professor Ozpin. I wasn't expecting to hear from you again so soon."_ James' face appeared once more, projected from the desk.

"Mr Nym has a prisoner for you to take off his hands."

"No need to say it like that," muttered Lautrec.

"This is Lautrec," Ozpin said.

"Comfy cell," Lautrec reminded him.

" _I'm afraid that none of our cells are designed with comfort in mind,"_ James said. _"Is it strictly necessary that he be a prisoner?"_

"He killed Anastacia," Artorias chipped in. "You know. Cold-blooded murderer and all that."

"Speaking of things that aren't strictly necessary…" Lautrec muttered, shooting a dark look Artorias' way.

"Regardless of his crimes, Lautrec is being hunted by the man who attacked Izalith," Ozpin said.

James understood his meaning; the prison would be just as much for Lautrec's protection as anybody else's. _"I'll send some of my men to escort him."_

"He's been cooperative so far."

" _Then we'll treat him with… a measure of respect."_

" _Thank_ you," Lautrec said.

" _Will that be all, Ozpin?"_

"Your aura expert – what was his name?"

" _Doctor Polendina."_ James' eyes narrowed.

"I suggest you send for him."

" _We'll speak more on that later,"_ said Ironwood. _"Thank you, Ozpin – Mr Nym."_

Mere moments after the call ended, the elevator opened, and a pair of Atlesian soldiers stepped out.

There was awkward silence for a time. Artorias began to whistle, his arm still held firmly on Lautrec's shoulder. The Atlesian soldiers were let in, and they oh-so officially proclaimed that they were there to bring Lautrec to General Ironwood.

"Thank you," Ozpin said, dismissing them. Lautrec and the soldiers both departed.

"Right – now that's done-"

"Sit."

Artorias sat.

Ozpin sipped at his coffee.

Loose lips sink ships. Artorias was a risk.

But he was also capable, and Ozpin doubted he'd purposefully betray them. June trusted him as much, at least. Though, like Ironwood, there was always the possibility that their ideologies would clash.

No. His history spoke for itself. He was rash and reckless – but had also displayed cunning and tact where necessary. And what was respect for authority, anyway? Qrow certainly had little, but he respected Ozpin. If Ozpin could invoke Artorias' respect for June…

"What is your favourite fairy tale?" Ozpin asked.

"And if that isn't a tangent…"

"Quite." Ozpin raised his coffee mug – it was empty. He reached for the pot. "Coffee?"

"No thanks," said Artorias. "Okay, so – fairy tales? Really?"

"Stories from your childhood. Myths, legends, folklore. Surely you remember some of them."

"Yeah, but _why?_ "

"Indulge me."

Artorias sighed. "Well – there's _The Lion, the Witch, and the Painting_ …"

Ozpin nodded. It had been warped over the centuries – as most had been, but that was one worth talking about. But June wanted him in the know – _really_ in the know. It would not suffice, not as a starting point.

"There's _The Father of Giants…_ "

Too recent – though accurate, it was of little import.

"How about _The Legend of the Lords?_ " Ozpin prompted.

"Careful, sir. Calling that a fairy tale could be considered blasphemy."

"Do you consider it blasphemous?"

"No. But some people blow simple stories out of proportion," Artorias shrugged. _Oh, the irony…_ "Just saying."

"Would you mind recounting it for me?" Ozpin asked.

Artorias' eyes narrowed. "Why?"

Ozpin sipped at his coffee – a valid response, in his book.

"Fine. Do you want the once-upon-a-time classic start, or just… straight into it?"

"Your choice," Ozpin said, smiling a little.

Artorias closed his eyes. Ozpin could see the story gathering in his mind, rolling to his tongue – and then he began. "Before there was life, the world was unformed, shrouded by fog. It was a land of grey crags, of towering stone trees, and of the creatures of Grimm."

Not entirely inaccurate. There had certainly been a lot of Grimm.

"But then there was fire, and with fire came disparity. Heat and cold. Life and death. Light and dark. And from the dark, they came, and found the souls of Lords within the flame." Whether that part was fact or fancy, not even Ozpin could say for sure. Certainly, their souls had been… different. It was not souls they found at the dawn of time. Perhaps their souls had been changed by the encounter. Perhaps they'd been born that way.

Given June's history, however, this was a far easier explanation than that of brothers and relics.

"There was the First Immortal-"

"The First _of_ the Immortals," Ozpin interrupted.

"Does it matter?"

"That's how it was told when I was young," Ozpin said. "I suppose stories change."

"No, but – I mean, both names kind of imply there are more than one immortal, you know? Doesn't play any part in the story, though."

Ozpin shrugged and sipped at his coffee. Artorias took it as an indication to forget it and to continue. "There was the First Immortal – or the First of the Immortals, take your pick. There was the Wizard, Lord of Magic. And there was the King, Lord of Sunlight."

"With the strength of Lords, they challenged the Grimm. The King's mighty bolts tore apart their bone armour. The Wizard weaved mighty storms, clearing the fog and crumbling the stone trees. And the Immortal commanded the Grimm to turn on one another, bringing chaos to their horde. They drove the Grimm back, and atop the strength of their souls they forged the kingdoms."

"The King's people travelled west, and there made their home in Vacuo under the sun. The Immortal and the Wizard together built Vale. And a fourth soul was found in the east and claimed by none, shared by all those who travelled there in search of sanctuary – and thus began Mistral. Boring story, really."

Ozpin blinked, half-expecting the hallucination of the man with ashen hair to appear and finish the story. But no. That was all humanity remembered.

And what a mess Mistral had made for them.

"Thank you, Mr Nym. Would-"

The light for the elevator blinked, and Ozpin paused.

"Excuse me – come in."

The doors opened.

Vengarl stood there, looking stern as ever. Ozpin blinked, and the blonde woman appeared in the elevator next to the old man, wearing a broad smile on her face. "Good luck, _my lord_ ," she mocked.

"We will continue this later, Artorias," said Ozpin.

"Sir?"

"Thank you for your time. And thank you for bringing the events of your mission to my attention. I'd strongly advise discretion in regards to our conversation."

Artorias seemed to recognise the dismissal, and stepped past Vengarl into the elevator, passing straight through the woman. "Later, then," he said. He pushed a button, and the doors closed.

Ozpin and Vengarl stared each other down. It had been almost twenty years since Ozpin had seen the man. He still carried himself the same way, with his shoulders squared and his back straight. Much like Ironwood, in fact, though they couldn't have come from more differing backgrounds.

"Oz," Vengarl said at last. "You're looking young."

"I can't say the same for you, I'm afraid. Take a seat."

Vengarl obliged.

"Coffee?"

"Please." Ozpin poured the man a mug. It felt surreal. "I saw the little debacle in Vale," Vengarl said.

"I hardly expected otherwise."

"You knew I was in town, then?"

"Of course." No use lying to him.

"I was assigned a team of first-years," said Vengarl. "Your doing?"

"On the contrary – I had no interest in contacting you," Ozpin said truthfully. "Nor to have my students come into contact with you. Not unless you reached out to me first."

Vengarl searched his face, his eyes narrowed. At last, he reclined in his seat and sipped at his coffee. "Miss Rose has silver eyes," he said. "I find that a difficult coincidence to swallow."

"You had Team RWBY?"

"That I did. She's Summer's, isn't she? And Miss Xiao Long is Taiyang's."

"They have a… complicated family. Ruby and Yang are half-sisters."

Ozpin watched the gears turn in Vengarl's mind. It took about five seconds for him to connect the dots. "Raven? I can't imagine her being a mother."

Ozpin sipped at his drink.

"I see." Vengarl, at least, appreciated the value of Ozpin's silence in a conversation. "And Qrow?"

"No children – not that I know of, at least."

"Would you be one to know?" Ozpin nodded. Vengarl sighed. "The Arc boy. Jaune."

Small-talk, it seemed, was over. "Yes?"

"I've offered him personal training – if you'll allow me to stay at Beacon."

Truthfully, he'd be glad to have Vengarl close at hand again, though like Ironwood he would only follow orders if he deemed them just. But Vengarl's judgement was a little less clouded, his interests less embroiled with politics, his knowledge a little broader, his decisions more likely to align with Ozpin's own. But at the same time…

Vengarl didn't trust him. And Ozpin knew that.

But first – a long drink of well-deserved coffee.

"We're in a delicate situation," Ozpin said, placing his mug back down on the desk.

"The painting. You've heard, then?"

Ozpin arched an eyebrow.

"That's why I'm here," said Vengarl. "But I thought you'd have at least the bare details. Little happens in this city without your knowing it."

"Within this school," Ozpin corrected. "I'm aware of a disturbance in the upper-class district late last night. That was you, then? Details are scarce, and a little strange."

"Strange is one way of putting it," Vengarl said. He launched into a detailed description – of a tall, spindly creature that seemed not quite human, but intelligent enough to use a sword (a flaming one, no less). A creature who could summon darkness (which he posited as a possible semblance) and travel through portals not unlike Raven's.

"Strange indeed," Ozpin mused. The description didn't match anything or anyone he knew of, unless Raven herself had grown a few feet.

He was struck by the image of Raven standing on Qrow's shoulders, the two of them wearing an oversized trenchcoat to hide Qrow. He hid a smile. "You said it obscured your vision. Did it not take that opportunity to pursue the painting?"

Vengarl's eyes narrowed. "No. Do you think – silver eyes?"

"It's possible," Ozpin mused. "But you said she went ahead."

A frown formed on Vengarl's face. "It may have been a diversion. The cargo made it to the museum safely, but… is it possible someone slipped into the painting further along the route, while we distracted?"

"No," Ozpin said. "The key is in my possession."

Vengarl sipped at his coffee.

"Don't pursue such questions further," Ozpin warned. "I will not answer them." It was still possible that Vengarl was right – there were two who would have no need of a key, and only one was accounted for. But it was a very low chance indeed.

Perhaps… Perhaps Ozpin would look for himself. Soon. Better safe than sorry.

Vengarl frowned, but nodded.

Ozpin sighed. "If you're going to stay in Beacon, I need to know where you stand on a certain issue."

"Go on."

"The Fall Maiden was attacked. Her power was somehow split, but one of my agents reached her before it could be stolen entirely," Ozpin explained. "She's in a coma, and there is little hope of her recovering. Would you be willing to follow my orders to protect her?"

"You're not telling me everything," Vengarl accused.

"Of course not," Ozpin said.

"Whatever you're leaving out, I want to know. I won't approve, will I?"

"That's a pessimistic conclusion to reach," Ozpin frowned.

"He's right though," said the blonde woman, stepping through the _closed_ elevator door into the office. "He wouldn't like it."

"It's a fair guess," Vengarl scowled. "I will not be complicit in this."

"Do you trust me when I tell you that I have no other choice?"

Vengarl leaned forwards, searching his eyes. "I want to," he said. He sighed, and sipped at his coffee. "I think I'll need something stronger than this."

Ozpin waited.

"Lucatiel was my best friend, Oz," he said. For the first time in his long life, he looked old – truly old, his body and voice both frail, his eyes tired. His hand shook, and he took another large gulp of coffee before putting it down, handling it as though it was too heavy for him to hold any longer. "The only solace I ever took was that it was _necessary_. _"_ He closed his eyes, collecting his thoughts. "You kept the truth from me for all those years."

"If it makes you feel any better," Ozpin said, catching the blonde hallucination's eye, "she haunts me to this very day." There was nothing else he could really say. What – that she would have lost her mind eventually anyway? That was hardly consolation.

Lucatiel – his twisted memory of her, anyway – was silent. He gathered his thoughts, and his hand came to rest on his cane, palming the pearl set in its handle.

"Hmph. I would hope she would." Vengarl sighed, seeming to collect himself, and again he was the stern old man who defied his age with every breath. "You're keeping the Fall Maiden… in the Vault?"

Ozpin nodded.

Vengarl snorted. "Figures. I can't promise that I will defend her," he said, "not without further information. But I still consider Beacon a home. I will protect it. I can promise you that."

Those were acceptable terms. "Welcome back to Beacon, Professor Sand."

"I won't be taking any classes," he said, an air of finality about him.

"Well – if Team RWBY finds out you're training Jaune, and I assure you they will, they'll be clamouring for your tutelage – not to mention Miss Valkyrie. At that point you may as well turn it into a full class."

"I will do no such thing," he said.

"Train Team RWBY? Or start a new class?"

Vengarl paused. "I would not be strictly against the first idea, though I'd rather avoid it. I'm vehemently opposed to teaching an entire class again, however."

Ozpin waved it off. "How long do you intend to stay?"

"A week. Maybe more. I'd like to be gone before the tournament begins, but… I'll see how it goes." Ozpin nodded – Vengarl had never liked the Vytal Festival.

"I'll have your old room organized for you."

Vengarl stood, holding out a hand to shake. "I still consider you a friend," he said gruffly, "for better or for worse."

"One would hope for the better," Ozpin said.

They shook hands. Vengarl departed.

"That went better than expected," Lucatiel said.

"It's a gambit," Ozpin muttered. "But his training will be good for them." On the off-chance that Team RWBY wouldn't bug Vengarl on their own, Ozpin would hint that they should. Perhaps even the rest of JNPR. If Pyrrha were to become the new maiden, as he hoped, she would need a strong team around her. As would Ruby. Vengarl's sentiments towards Atlas might cause the Heiress to question her loyalty to her family – a positive in Ozpin's book.

"If he becomes close with them, he would be loathe to see them torn apart."

"That may work in our favour." He winced as he remembered that she wasn't actually there; 'our', perhaps, wasn't the proper term.

She smirked. "And it may work against you."

"Hence the gambit. It's possible that there will _be_ no side effects to Ironwood's… machine." Was that what had happened to Lautrec? Something akin to the aura transfer device? If so – aside from some less than subtle cosmetic changes, he seemed sane enough.

A bit annoying, though. That was probably just him.

She shrugged. "Souls are delicate things."

Ozpin nodded and sipped at his coffee. "This is good, though," he said. "Grudging or otherwise, he is an ally. And I'm in desperate need of allies."

"Will you still recruit Artorias?"

Ozpin paused. "He will have his suspicions now, surely. But Vengarl would not approve of recruiting a student, and I need his favour right now."

"It's Gilderoy you should be concerned with," Lucatiel said.

"Vengarl doesn't know."

"Not for sure. And neither do you. But Vengarl thinks you do." And that could prove very, _very_ dangerous, should Vengarl turn against him. Even if June's belief was misplaced. "Not that it's any of his business."

"It shouldn't be mine either, nor June's."

"She's aligned herself too closely with her past life." A man's voice. Ozpin looked up. The ashen-haired hallucination stood next to Lucatiel, his arms crossed.

"And pushing her too far the other way would be even worse," Lucatiel argued.

The two of them broke out into an argument. Ozpin looked down, sighing. It probably wasn't a good sign that his imagination was fighting with itself. In the background, they'd started shouting at each other.

Would they come to blows? Could that even happen? Ozpin wasn't sure. And what would happen if one of them won? It'd be an interesting experiment to try.

No. He was playing games with his own sanity now. That was _definitely_ not a good thing.

Calmly, he stood, made his way towards the elevator, and descended, leaving his imagination behind to argue in his office.

/-/

There was a knock at the door.

Morgan Nym looked away from the news – still covering the aftermath of what they were calling 'The Breach'. "Just a moment," she called, making her way towards the door.

She opened it.

Artorias stood there, a bouquet of flowers in his arms.

"Hi Mum," he said. A hand came up to scratch at the stubble on his chin. "I think I need to apologise. For a few things."

A smile spread on her face, and she pulled him into an embrace.

/-/

"Why is it _always_ a warehouse?" Mercury droned. "I mean – really – Roman, that Vordt guy – who's this one?"

"We met with Adam on a roof," Emerald reminded him.

"That's an even stupider place to meet. I mean, _anyone_ could see him up there. Anyone could see _us_ up there with him. Isn't this supposed to be discrete?"

"It's not your place to ask why," Cinder said.

"I really feel like this is a valid question," Mercury said.

"She said shut up, Mercury," Emerald said. "I guess it's hard for you to read subtext if you can't read in the first place."

"A real burn, that was," Mercury drawled.

The sun was about to set when they reached the warehouse. Clouds were gathering overhead. Maybe it would rain.

Cinder didn't like rain.

"Who are we meeting?" Emerald asked.

"An associate," Cinder said.

"An associate?"

"Someone she works with."

"I know what associate means, Mercury!" she hissed. "But I thought it'd just be us from here on out. Is this another favour?"

"Perhaps," Cinder said. "He didn't say what it was he wanted. Emerald – if he attacks us, hide our retreat."

"Couldn't we just kill him?" Mercury asked.

"You'll do no such thing," Cinder said, her voice lowering. "He'd be a fool to try anything – but then, he's a fool as it is."

On that pleasant note, she opened the door and stepped inside, her heels clacking on the concrete. The warehouse was dark, lit only by the fading sunlight filtering in through a skylight. In the pale circle it illuminated, impaled in the floor, was a massive sword, the blade thick and rough as though hewn from stone.

"You're earlier than expected."

"We were already away from the school. But security is heightened now – I trust we won't have to meet too often?"

A man stepped into the circle of light, wearing ill-fitting civilian clothes. He was pale, unnaturally so, pasty and sickly as though he skin was stretched thin over his body. A pair of yellow eyes flickered over Cinder's shoulder to her companions. "Hopefully not," he said, his gaze returning to Cinder.

"Has your armour grown too heavy for you, Raime?" Cinder teased. "Don't tell me you're getting old."

He looked down and away. "I _am_ old."

"Old enough to forget your duties? I believe you were tasked with finding the Summer Maiden."

"A task that has become complicated, of late. There's a third party. He stole her soul."

"He?" Cinder raised an eyebrow and stepped closer. "Don't make excuses. A man could never-"

"Not her powers – her soul," Raime snapped. "She's under his protection. Or in his captivity." Raime shrugged. "It makes little difference."

Cinder pursed her lips. On one hand, it seemed outlandish. But at the same time, had she not achieved things just as strange? "Are you sure?" she asked.

"Certain. Though the 'how' of the matter eludes me."

"And they're here in Vale now, I suppose."

"On the Mantle airship, no less. I saw him taken in handcuffs."

Cinder smirked and stepped closer again, now into the quickly fading circle of light. Fire danced at her fingertips to illuminate the room softly – she saw a bundle that must have been his armour in the corner of the room, alongside his other, smaller sword. "It's called Atlas, these days. Sooner or later, you'll realise that the world has passed you by while you've been begging at Salem's table."

Raime bristled. "I came to you for help, not to be belittled."

"I know you did. Have patience, pet. I can get you onto the airship."

"I'm not your pet, Cinder," he spat.

"Not mine, perhaps. Although – perhaps when she grows tired of letting you lick her boots…"

"You weren't there," he growled. "You didn't see-"

"-the end of the world?" Cinder smirked. "Always with the past, Raime. Always the same story. You waste your life." She shook her head, still smirking while he fumed silently. "You'll owe me a favour, of course. I'll help. I'll contact you again before the end of the tournament. Keep a low profile. I won't have you ruining _my_ operation too."

She turned to leave, beckoning Emerald and Mercury to follow.

"There's more," Raime said.

"Is there?" she didn't even look over her shoulder.

"There's a student – maybe a full team – following my trail. A wolf faunus with silver hair."

Cinder halted in her tracks. The one from the CCT. She turned to look at Raime again. "Go on."

He pulled a dagger from his belt. "This was his. He knew I was at Izalith. He saw me at Carim – he and his teammate."

Cinder recalled what Mercury had told her. An exchange student from Vacuo. If he'd been hunting Raime too, he was almost certainly one of Ozpin's. And even if he wasn't, he was a thorn to be removed.

She'd seen them land too, back at Beacon. The patterns on the leader's coat – deliberate. She was sure of it. A hieroglyph cipher, without a doubt. Each pattern representing a small phrase, something to chant in his head to activate his semblance. His semblance could amplify the effects of shock dust.

And it was a technique she was aware of because she'd once used it too – with burn dust, perhaps, but using the same principles. It was a semblance that required intense concentration. Shaping the dust into words and phrases made that a little easier, though it was the equivalent of training wheels.

So – he was clever, but young, lacking the same discipline with his semblance that Cinder had worked so very hard for.

She'd have to remove that team from the tournament early – better safe than sorry. All it would take was finding a team, maybe even a semblance, to counter them. And with access to the CCT, all the students' records were available to her. Medical history, combat history – including semblances, if they'd chosen to divulge them. It would be a simple matter.

"You'll continue investigating them, Mercury," she said.

"You're aware of them?" Raime asked. "Are they Ozpin's?"

"Perhaps. They're an obstacle to be removed either way."

"If he _is_ one of Ozpin's, I'd recommend that _you-_ "

"Do not question my subordinate's ability, Raime," she said, stepping closer once again. The fire at her fingertips flared, now the only light in the room. "You're certainly in no position to question my judgement."

Raime's eyes narrowed, then he sighed. "Very well. I'll await your instruction." He sheathed the wolf's dagger. Cinder turned again, leading Mercury and Emerald out of the warehouse. The gears were turning in her head – Raime's failure could be used to her advantage. Certainly, it would weaken his position in Salem's eyes.

But there was still the matter of Sulyvahn to consider. His bid for power was just beginning, and if he caught wind of Raime's failings he would not hesitate to pounce.

"Does this change the plan?" Emerald asked.

It was beginning to rain. A little push of her aura, and the dust in her dress lit up. The droplets turned to steam as they touched her skin. "The plan continues. Mercury – you're to continue spying on the students – including the first-years, now."

"What?"

"Emerald, when Councilman Sulyvahn arrives I want you to shadow him at all times. Use your semblance to hide yourself from him, if you have to. He is not to be underestimated."

"Yes ma'am."

She nodded, content with the little changes, and set off into the night.

/-/

 _Dear Priscilla,_

 _This letter will come a few days before me. Wait for me by the gates for one hour each day at dawn; I need to see you before I speak with Father. I suspect I shan't have a chance afterwards._

 _Mistral is wonderful, little Yorshka. The people, the city, the culture – it's incredible. Not in Vale nor in Vacuo are the people quite like this, without a care in the world. They live for themselves, not for a faceless Lord in an ivory tower. I refuse to take that from them._

 _If we fail to meet at the gate, this may be goodbye. Do not let Father quench your spirit. The world is a beautiful place, even if I cannot be there to show it to you. Promise me – promise yourself that you will one day walk this world and see it all it has to offer, for you deserve nothing less than all the world._

 _I pray I will see you soon._

 _Your brother, unto death and beyond,_

 _Malgwyn._


	19. Chapter 18: Calm

**Welcome back to Volume 3! New volume, new cover art - what does it mean? Who knows? Well, I do. I know it's a really tiny picture, but there are two details you can catch (aside from the blatantly obvious, i.e. it's Gwyn and Ozpin on the cover) that have deeper meaning. Take some guesses.**

 **A little housekeeping: after that first guy who got upset over this not being in the crossover section (among other things), I told myself that if somebody else got upset about it I'd move it. So I did. And here we are.**

 **Enjoy.**

* * *

 _You don't look too good. I don't know that I'm surprised. Were you always so very pale? Experiments, no doubt. The crazy bastard's obsessed with the advancement of knowledge. Immortality – that's what he's after. But I'm sure you've noticed._

 _What does it matter, anyway? It's not like he's leaving. Especially not now. I have a feeling we're going to make a fabulous team. You and me, friend – it's us against the world._

 _His death for our freedom. Kill the Warden._

/-/

"And you're _sure_ you're fine?"

"Just a scratch!" Sun crowed. "Only a flesh wound, a minor setback, a… you know, I'm out. Just a dismemberment?"

"If it was _just_ a scratch, they'd let you fight already," Ruby said smugly.

"It's just to be on the safe side," said Sun. "Seriously. I'm fine." He leaned back in his seat and laced his hands behind his head his gaze returning to the bout.

With students expected to be out on missions all week, there weren't any _real_ classes scheduled at Beacon – at least nothing they'd be graded on – but instead there were organised sparring sessions for students who returned early. But with the Breach only a day before, there were a lot of students who hadn't even left Vale (and wouldn't for security issues), and so the sparring room was fairly full – it was open to students from all years, after all.

Today the bouts were being supervised by Professor Port. Ruby was pleasantly surprised to find that he didn't try monologuing over the top of the fights, though he _was_ practicing his commentary for the tournament. Ruby had long ago learned how best to ignore the old professor.

"He is perfectly healthy," Penny said. She and Gilderoy had managed to form a fast friendship, the two of them sitting together on Ruby's right. "I believe that Sun would be able to fight as well as he ever did."

"See? I'm fine."

"I didn't say you were fine," Penny clarified. "I said you were healthy, in the physical sense. I apologise if that was misunderstood as a diagnosis of your mental acuity."

Sun recoiled as though struck, though a goofy smile spread across his face. "That hurt more than the train," he joked.

Ruby snickered. It took Penny another moment to catch on that it was a joke, but she soon joined in.

"Excuse me, excuse me – hey, Ruby!"

Ruby followed the voice to see Emerald pushing past Blake and Ciaran towards them, a teammate in tow – Mercury, if she remembered correctly.

"Hey, come on over!" Ruby scooted towards Penny to make room.

"Hmm. My money's on blondie," Mercury said, gesturing down towards the fight.

"Gough isn't good at close quarter combat," Gilderoy agreed. The large man was swatting at Yang as she ducked in and out of his guard, very rarely making enough room to fire an arrow at her. "He fights best from the backline. It's something we've been wanting to work on, but…" Gilderoy trailed off, shrugging. "Oh, this is… Mercury, right? Mercury, Penny, Penny, Mercury. Ruby-"

"We've met," Mercury said. "I think you literally ran into us." He plopped himself into a seat and offered Penny a little wave. "Nice to meet you, though."

Penny's eyes lit up. "Salutations, Mercury! Do you intend to spar today?"

"Not today," Mercury said. "Just here to watch."

"A good plan," Sun agreed. "Nice and laid back…"

"I hear your team was on the ground first at the Breach," Emerald said. "How'd that happen?"

"Well – we – that is, me and Nep and Team RWBY and Art – where's Nep, anyway? We got a tip that something was off in the area." If Ruby's memory served, Neptune and Weiss were talking in private.

And _only_ talking, as Weiss had been sure to tell Yang.

"Huh, is that right?" Mercury shared a glance with Emerald. "Was it an anonymous tip, or…?"

"Tip probably wasn't the right word," said Sun. "Long possibly-detention-worthy story short, we were looking for trouble."

"Ah, actually, _we_ were trying to do the right thing," Ruby clarified.

"Looking for trouble," Sun repeated. "And there's nothing wrong with that. Speaking of trouble – hey, Gil, where's Art?"

"Detention."

"Detention? You guys came back _yesterday._ "

"He certainly sounds like trouble," Emerald laughed.

Port's expansive voice floated up from the sparring floor. "And with a crushing blow, Gough Iris' aura is reduced below the threshold! No, wait, hold on – Gough Iris is defeated? How about some crowd participation – do you prefer simplicity or verbosity?"

Nobody responded.

"Verbosity it is! Gough Iris' aura is reduced below the safety threshold, and he is thus eliminated from the round."

"Good fight, big man," Yang was grinning as she left the stage, Gough a few steps behind her. "Hey, do you mind if I call bragging rights? I mean, you know, you're a third year and all…"

"Be my guest," Gough said, not at all upset.

"Hey, Ruby-"

"We heard, Yang." Port was calling for volunteers down on the floor.

"Did you guys have to do a debriefing with the Atlesi- with Vordt?" Ruby asked, addressing Mercury and Emerald.

"No, actually – did you and grumpy-pants?"

"More like grampy-pants," Yang quipped. Ruby chose to ignore the terrible joke. "Yeah, with the council. Man, if you think Vengarl's grumpy normally, you should see him with the council. They're all-"

"They're all so boring!" Ruby exclaimed. "They're just like, 'file a written report to the department of stupid by this date in accordance with the standard procedure guide for boringness' and stuff! That's _all_ they do. They say things. And they talked to us like we're kids-"

"You _are_ a kid, Ruby," Yang said. She slung an arm around Ruby, her grin growing wider as the younger girl spluttered.

"That's not the point. They talked to Vengarl like a kid, too. He's like, older than all of them combined."

"Ouch," Mercury said.

"That's true, though," Yang mused. "I mean, when _we_ called him 'sir', it's endearing, right? But when they did it, it was just patronising."

"We did _their_ job at _their_ request and in return they just make us sit through a bajillion hours of pointless talking so they can pat themselves on the back!" Ruby ranted. "Okay, I'm done."

"Sounds rough," Mercury said, after a low whistle.

"It was only two hours," Yang corrected. "And they also paid us."

"That part didn't suck," Ruby agreed. Though Beacon had taken a small cut as they were still only students, they'd been allowed to keep the majority. Ruby wasn't sure what to spend it on. Ammo? A new weapon-cleaning kit? Or maybe she should just spend it on the simple things, like cookies and strawberries.

Or maybe she should save it.

Nah.

"Well then – what did you guys do?" Emerald asked, talking to Gilderoy and Gough. "Was it just as boring?"

Gough shifted uncomfortably, but it was Gil who answered. "We… failed. Kind of. Almost everyone survived, but the town was destroyed."

There was silence for a second, broken only by Port's exuberant narration of the ongoing spar.

"Oh," said Emerald at last.

/-/

"How much training have you had?"

Jaune glanced to the bleachers where his team was sitting, specifically to Pyrrha.

"Look at me, Mr Arc – I'm only letting them watch because they're your team. Discipline, Arc, discipline. How much training have you had?"

"I didn't train much before Beacon, then normal lessons with Professor Goodwitch and out of class with Pyrrha."

"Not much isn't much to go on."

"I didn't go to a combat school. I didn't learn privately. I just picked up what I could by myself." Which had been basically nothing, if he was totally honest.

"Hmm." Vengarl drew one of his two massive swords. "Hit me," he said.

"Uh… okay?" Vengarl rolled his eyes and flourished his weapon.

"Today, Mr Arc."

Crocea Mors rasped from his sheath, the shield expanding onto his arm as he dashed forwards. The blade came arcing down, only to be sent glancing away by Vengarl's weapon. Jaune continued his charge, raising his shield to block an overhead strike. His arm jarred from the impact, but he kept charging, only to find that he'd passed the old man by.

"Don't obscure your vision," Vengarl said. "Again."

Jaune levelled Crocea Mors for another assault, leaping forwards to stab Vengarl. The old man swung his sword at Jaune's own, throwing him well off-balance, but Jaune let the momentum throw him into a mid-air spin to whip his sheathe towards Vengarl's face.

There wasn't an impact.

He rolled away the moment he landed, expecting a counterattack to strike him.

Vengarl was, instead, watching him, slightly bemused. Nora too was laughing quietly in the bleachers. "Miss Valkyrie, you are here in the condition you don't interrupt. Please be silent."

"Yes sir!"

"And you'll stop calling me that?"

"Yes sir!" Nora giggled afterwards before quickly covering her mouth, her eyes wide.

Vengarl pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long sigh. "Mr Arc, do you often win fights?"

Jaune frowned. "Sometimes in Professor Goodwitch's class, yeah." He'd beaten some of the slower opponents a few times in bouts – like Cardin – but even that wasn't an easy victory. Actually, he'd come _kinda_ close to beating Blake once.

Okay, that was stretching it. He'd only managed to land two hits on the slippery fighter. But it had taken a very long time for her to whittle him down in turn – it had been his slowest loss so far.

"Have you ever beaten Miss Nikos?"

"…no?"

"Hmm. It shows. You fight like you expect every blow to be blocked or to miss, Mr Arc. That may work against lesser opponents and the Grimm, but it won't get you far against someone who _really_ knows what they're doing. I _saw_ you fight yesterday, and you were better than this. Although…" he tapped his chin. "Do they still teach beacon psychology?"

"What now?"

"Apparently not." He cracked his neck. "Nikos, Valkyrie, Ren, it's good that you're here. Don't bother getting weapons, come down to the floor."

"Yes s-" Nora started. Ren covered her mouth with his hand.

"Thank you, Mr Ren. I'll be right back." He sheathed his sword and left the training room in a hurry.

"He seems… interesting," Pyrrha said. "Did he tell you why he wanted to train with you?"

"Not at all," Jaune mused. "He just kinda came up to me and said so, so I said 'sure, why not'."

"He keeps to himself," Ren said. "What do you suppose beacon psychology is?"

"I didn't know Beacon trained psychiatrists," Nora said. Ren patted her absentmindedly on the head, as one would a small child.

"He'll tell us," Pyrrha said. "What I want to know is what kind of questions those were."

"Yeah!" Jaune agreed. "I mean, obviously I wouldn't be able to beat you. You're… Pyrrha freaking Nikos, you know? It'd just mean that you're going easy on me, and that's not going to help me learn, right? I've been getting better."

Pyrrha blushed a little. "It's not that. It's the implication that you have no trust in your own abilities."

"That wasn't an implication, Miss Nikos," Vengarl said, returning to the room with something hanging from his grip, hidden beneath a cloth. "Implications are subtle." The cloth shook, and a rattling sound came from beneath it. "Nevermind that for now." He took the cloth off – in his hand was a bird cage, and within the bird cage was a small Nevermore.

"How'd you get that so fast, sir?" Nora asked.

He grimaced, but seemed to not think it worth correcting her. "A word of advice: never enter Peter Port's bedroom unarmed."

Jaune shared a nervous look with his team. "You're joking, aren't you?" Pyrrha asked.

"Not at all. Peter's probably going to be very upset if he finds this missing, by the way, so try not to kill it." He set the cage down on the floor. "Mr Arc, I want you to think of something that makes you unhappy, or afraid, or angry. The rest of you, think happy thoughts."

"Uh, why?"

"Because, Mr Arc, negative emotions are just as much a weapon as that sword at your side. You can yell and scream at a Grimm all you want and you'll probably get its attention, but if you're trying to draw it away from some civilians there's no better way to do it than looking extremely tasty to the Grimm."

"That's insane… that doesn't work, does it?" Pyrrha asked.

"It absolutely does," Vengal assured them. "We used to call it Grimm bait, but the official name they came up with was beacon psychology – the idea being that you can turn yourself into a beacon to the Grimm. We named this school after the tactic, in fact."

"We?"

He pursed his lips as Ren threw the word back to him. "Don't mind me," he said. "Mr Arc, I want you miserable in under sixty seconds. The rest of you, be happy."

"On it, sir!" Nora cheered.

"Don't – you know what? Nevermind."

What made Jaune sad, or angry, or afraid? Cardin's face came first – but then, all that made him feel was pity. Maybe a _little_ angry, sure, but nothing intense, nothing that would really call out to the Grimm. Then Weiss – disappointment welled up within him, towards himself, but also bitterness, a strange apathy, a desire to forget, to move on. That was the point of all that, right?

But then, what else…

His parents. He loved them – he _knew_ he loved them, and he knew that they loved him back, but something within him hurt terribly when he imagined their voices in his head. How dare they doubt him? He could do anything he set his mind to – he could be a Huntsman, he _would be_ a Huntsman. He'd be a hero. Anger welled up within him. His fists balled, and his mouth set in a grimace.

"Feeling miserable," he called.

"Walk around the cage," Vengarl instructed. "All of you watch the Nevermore." Jaune did. The bird's murderous red eyes glared at him as he walked away from the group, its head turning to follow him.

"Good," Vengarl called. "Think happy thoughts, Mr Arc. Mr Ren, it's your turn."

"Me?"

"This is a group activity. You're all going to be working together for at _least_ three more years. Four miserable gits make for better Grimm bait than one. Just be sure to never let these emotions control you."

Ren glanced at his teammates, a little more nervous than Jaune was used to seeing him. "I have a semblance-"

"Semblances rely on aura. Aura is fallible, your mind less so. You have sixty seconds."

Jaune watched curiously as Ren closed his eyes. There was a near instant reaction from the Nevermore – it lunged towards him, and the cage rattled violently. Its neck was pushed between the bars, and, with a small, quiet _snap_ , the bird's neck broke.

Vengarl was quiet.

Ren opened his eyes again, and they followed the black smoke of the dissolving Grimm as it wafted out of the cage.

"We're done for the day," Vengarl said sharply, after a long pause. "I need to catch Peter a new pet. Mr Arc, we'll meet tomorrow morning. The rest of you are still welcome to observe, if you wish. Mr Ren, if you _do_ , for some reason, wish to talk – I know I'm a stranger, but-"

"That won't be necessary," said Ren.

Vengarl nodded, then turned and left without another word, his shoulders stiff.

"What were you thinking of?" Nora asked, her voice small and shaky.

"I'm fine," he said. He seemed to be just his usual, calm self. Indeed, nothing seemed wrong with him at all. "It's an irrational fear, nothing more." He forced a smile.

That part wasn't normal at all. Ren didn't force smiles. He had a nice smile, a little understated little arc of the mouth. This was not that smile.

"Are you sure?" Pyrrha asked.

"Absolutely," Ren said. "What do you want for dinner, Nora?"

"Ren, if this is-"

"What a silly question, silly!" Nora exclaimed. She slung an arm around his waist and led him away, and Jaune saw Ren smile – truly smile – just before he vanished through the door.

/-/

Artorias Nym threw open the door with a loud, slurred, "Here I am!" stumbling into the office and moving his flask in the general direction of his face. With her semblance, Glynda Goodwitch snatched the flask from Artorias' hand before it reached his lips.

"Mr Nym," she said. Her voice was not a roar as such – more a whisper that still somehow rattled him to his core. "I shouldn't have to remind you that your rampant alcoholism is why you are here in the first place."

"Wait for it…" he slurred. Goodwitch frowned as she caught the flask. It seemed lighter than it should be – she shook it softly. No liquid sloshed within.

"Ta-da!" His grin spread nearly as wide as his arms. He straightened up, his drunken demeanour disappearing instantly. "Okay, first of all – ouch. Second – I'm pretty sure I'm here because of the miracle of birth, and lastly – for future reference, if you ever want me to share, you just have to ask." He walked over to the chair in front of her desk and plopped down in it. "And no," he added as an afterthought, "that doesn't mean I drank it all on the way here. I'm at _least_ eighty percent sober."

"You truly fill me with confidence," she said dryly. "I'd ask you not to pull such an immature prank again."

"No promises," he winked. A cursory glance around the room told him that they were the only two occupants. Goodwitch's office was neat and tidy – as to be expected, he supposed – though she had a little clutter before her, mostly papers and pens (and, strangely, a quill). "Nobody else for detention? Seriously – did nobody spike the punch or something?"

"You seem disappointed."

"I am!" he crowed. "I expect more from Sun."

Something fierce glinted in her eye. Two massive stacks of paperwork hovered up from behind her desk. Artorias supressed the urge to flinch as they hit the desk, Goodwitch still keeping her withering gaze upon him. "You may leave once this paperwork is filled out, Mr Nym. I suggest you spend your time working rather than cracking bad jokes."

"Why not both?" Nevertheless, he leaned forwards, his eyes glancing over the papers. Medical forms, by the look of it. "What am I doing and how do you want it done?"

Goodwitch pointed to the left pile. "These are the medical forms of all the students to be participating in the Vytal Festival," she said. "We need to submit them to the Interkingdom Vytal Committee by the end of the week. Unfortunately – and as grossly inefficient as it is – the IVC requires them to be formatted in a certain manner." She gesture to the next pile. "These are the proper forms – they just need to be filled out and signed by Professor Ozpin."

"You mean you need to forge his signature?"

"No-"

"June always told me you did everything at Beacon," he said. "Take the compliment, Professor."

She hummed in acknowledgement, but neither agreed nor disagreed.

Artorias thumbed through the filled-out forms. "Aren't these private?"

"They're going to be reviewed by a board of old men. I'm not too worried."

He raised an eyebrow. "And you're not worried I might gain a tactical advantage…?"

"Information regarding semblances and weaponry are not included, Mr Nym. If you _do_ use somebody's allergies against them in the tournament, however, you will be answering to me."

"Noted," he said dryly. Left unspoken was that he would rather answer to just about anyone else, though for the time being it was fun push her buttons just a little bit, and she even had a few hidden barbs of her own to trade. Glynda Goodwitch was not without a sense of humour, dry as it was. Honestly, this was almost a relief - he'd come clean with his team about Quill after talking to his mum, and Ciaran and Gough had been treating him like glass all day.

Even in Vacuo, despite the somewhat lax standards, he'd had to submit his full medical records and undergo a physical exam to fill in his medical form for enrolment at Shade – and then _that_ had had to be signed off on by a licensed practitioner. Thankfully, coming from Flare, it had all been fairly streamlined for him. He imagined that at the other schools things would be even more strict, Atlas especially.

Bureaucracy was truly a nightmare.

"How do you want them ordered?" he asked.

"School first, in alphabetical order. Then by the students' last names, also in alphabetical order."

"Got it." The way he saw it, then, was that he had two options: fill out the IVC forms first, then order them as necessary; or order them now and fill them out in the order they'd be stacked in.

Functionally, it made little difference. But the second seemed easier, probably because it was leaving the hard work for later.

He flicked through the forms to find examples of the format for each school. All he needed was one little thing he could quickly note so he could throw them in four more separate piles. The forms from Atlas, for example, did everything in boxes – allergies, vaccinations, even pre-existing conditions (though there were options for 'other' with space provided to write out the specifics) – all categorised like a weird multiple choice test. Haven's, meanwhile, were distinct from the rest in that they took note of dietary requirements in a separate section. Beacon's and Shade's were both pretty much the same, evenly spaced (and with very few checkboxes), but Beacon's were signed at the top of the form rather than at the bottom.

Taking these differences into account, Artorias began sorting them into four smaller piles, one for each school, not bothering to sort by the students' names just yet. He could get to that in another pass.

Goodwitch watched him curiously. "You're very quiet," she said. He liked to think she was at least a _little_ impressed by his efficacy.

"I'm used to this kinda thing."

"Detention?"

Artorias smirked. "Nice one, Professor." She muttered something under her breath. He liked to think it was 'ass-kisser'. But it probably wasn't. "Well, yeah, but mostly the paperwork thing." He paused briefly as he came across Blake's form – it stated that she was a human. It must have been forged, unless she'd somehow hidden her ears for the physical.

"This is the first detention you've received all semester."

"You sound surprised. Maybe this is just the first I've _attended,_ " he suggested. "I'd never stand _you_ up, Professor."

"Flattering," she drawled. "The Headmasters of the other academies were sure to point out troublemakers among the exchange students, however. You, for example."

"June said that?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "I'm honoured."

"Don't presume I haven't noticed that you're one of the laziest students to walk these halls," she said. "But you've done well for yourself regardless. I can't fault you that."

"Is this going somewhere?" He picked up the Shade pile and sorted through it, shuffling papers back and forth until they resembled something vaguely alphabetical.

"No, Mr Nym. It's merely an observation." She sighed, and polished her glasses. "You may not be an official student of Beacon, but I do have an interest in your success."

"I bet you say that to all the exchange students."

"I do," she said, probably thinking it wasn't worth the effort to tell him off. He was already in detention, after all. He went back to sorting the forms – moving on now to the Haven pile. Who knew Neptune was allergic to Nevermore eggs? Did he just have to touch them to break out into an allergic reaction, or did he (gods forbid) need to _eat_ one?

He didn't even know Nevermores laid eggs. How did Grimm reproduce, anyway? Being a third-year student, he felt he should know the answer – perhaps Port had covered it. That would explain the gap in his knowledge, at least.

"I hear your team ran into difficulties on your mission."

He was careful not to miss a beat – Ozpin did mention discretion, after all. "Well, it took a while to convince Gil to go for that third beer, let me tell you-"

"Rampant alcoholism, Mr Nym," she reminded him. "And that's not my point. I thought you might want to know that I've already spoken with Arstor. Many of the survivors of Carim have already signed up for a council resettlement initiative."

"Arstor?"

"The earl," she amended. "He's… an old friend." She cleared her throat quietly. "I also thought you should know just how much paperwork it's incurred."

"Sorry?"

"Sorry indeed. Due to your… _exemplary_ behaviour so far this session, you'll be joining me again next Thursday to assist me with it."

"Why Thursday? That's like, a week away."

"Because everything else I have to do between now and then might enable you to cheat in the tournament. I won't be responsible for that."

"What if I pinky-swear?"

She regarded him with a deadpan expression, then returned to her work.

There was another long gap in the conversation, peppered with occasional light questions – for example, 'Why hadn't all this medical stuff been done yet?' She'd answered vaguely – that it wasn't necessary until Amity arrived, that there had been more important work to do.

Which, if Artorias trusted June (and he did), probably meant that Ozpin wasn't pulling his weight in paper.

"Are you prepared for your final exams?" she asked after a long pause. Artorias was just getting stuck into the IVC forms.

"Enough," he said. He had neither studied nor listened to the lectures completely in the first place, though he was sure he'd be able to recollect at least _some_ details under pressure. The exams were fast approaching, too – this week had been put aside to allow all the Hunter teams to return from their missions (though fewer had even managed to leave Beacon than in previous years), and then the theory exams were all in blocks from Monday to Wednesday the next week.

He fully intended to party on Wednesday night. Probably with Sun. Possibly also with Yang. And definitely with Gil, whether he agreed to it or not.

Then it'd be a few short days to Friday, when the opening ceremony for the tournament was to occur and the matchups for the four-v-fours determined. Then, a weekend of pre-tournament analysis, sponsorships, betting and advertisement – and then, finally, after the weekend, the tournament was to begin.

"How'd I do on prac?" There was no practical exam per se, rather their performances were evaluated over the course of the semester.

"You'll see," she said. Artorias took that to mean he'd either done really well or really poorly. Or that she wasn't allowed to tell him.

Nah. That was boring.

"I'm prepared," he said, filling in his own IVC medical form. "Ciaran's gonna shove Port's prose down my throat for the next week, and by then I should have digested all of Oobleck's lectures."

"Wish your team luck on my behalf."

"They don't need it," he said, "and neither do I."

"I didn't ask." Artorias snorted with suppressed laughter. Professor Goodwitch was, despite first impressions, a real riot.

"So," said Artorias, scribbling in his own medical details in an IVC-approved format, "what's Beacon's policy on alcohol, anyway?"

Goodwitch raised an eyebrow.

"Well – if that's why I'm here, I figure it can't hurt to learn what I did wrong."

"From a legal standpoint, you're all Hunters. Within the privacy of your own dorms, you may drink as much as you like – as long as you're not being disruptive."

"Disruptive? Me? Never." It was the same as at Shade, more or less, though the rules at Shade weren't as heavily enforced. He'd even gotten drunk with the headmistress once over a mountain of paperwork, the condition being that she wouldn't give him more detention if he managed more shots than her.

That had ended poorly for him. June had proudly proclaimed that she could drink with the best old bird in Remnant (and that the 'best old bird', whoever that was, looked absolutely gorgeous in one of her dresses).

The teachers at Shade were really, _really_ lax.

"Regardless of school policy, I'd recommend straying away from such vices." Goodwitch placed his empty flask on the desk for him to take. "Drink responsibly, Mr Nym."

He pocketed the flask, shrugging in the most non-committal way he could manage.

They worked in near-complete silence. A little over an hour passed before Artorias finished his work, smattered with light conversation, though she maintained her clipped, austere attitude the whole time, humour only shining through when she allowed it to.

"Artorias?" she called, as he neared the door.

"Hmm?"

"Professor Ozpin told me to let you know: the Fume Knight worries him, but there are far greater issues we should concern ourselves with."

He nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing. "Anything else?"

She hesitated. "No. I'll see you on Thursday, Mr Nym.

* * *

 **I really just wanted this to wind down from the last arc, so it's a bit of a slow chapter. I also wanted to establish the chronology. We've got a little under two weeks for Cinder and Sulyvahn to play against each other before the tournament begins, and Sulyvahn isn't even here yet.**

 **You should (or might, rather) know who's delivering that monologue in italics at the beginning. There's no misdirection there. It's exactly who you think it is. Who they're talking _to_ , however, is another question entirely.**

 **Okay, you can probably guess that already too. But who they're talking _about_... well, it doesn't matter a great deal yet, but hey, you may as well guess. If you get all three right I'll buy you a cookie or something (Disclaimer: no I won't).**

 **Moving on, Emerald's helping Mercury get comfortable with the happy-all-the-time-first-years. I need to find opportunities to write just Penny and Gil, because there's so much untapped potential that I'm struggling to use with such a massive cast. In the background, Ciaran meets Blake (finally). More on that later. Maybe.**

 **Vengarl gives some unorthodox training. Ren's fine, don't worry, he's not depressed. He just imagined a world without Nora, and it made him sad enough to drive that Nevermore crazy.** **I'm serious. That's what I had in mind when I wrote it. Port continues to be both my greatest and worst source of comic relief. Praise the moustache.**

 **June knows Qrow (and his glorious legs), Glynda has a sense of humour (muted as it may be), and Artorias does some paperwork. I'm sure you _loved_ the paperwork. I'm sure you can't _wait_ to see what the Carim paperwork entails /s**

 **Would you believe me if I said it'd be a plot point further down the line? I said that about the mustard too, didn't I?**

 **Both will be plot points. Absolutely.**

 **If I'm not back next week, assume I died from alcohol poisoning.**

 **Next chapter - 21 July.**


	20. Chapter 19: Curiosity

**Didn't die.**

* * *

 _I'd heard you were dangerous. Glad to see I was right._

 _This one is just like you. A prisoner. But don't be fooled. She's not our friend. Or is it a he? I've never asked. I don't think it matters, to… him? Bah. Maybe I should know. It doesn't matter._

 _Whatever. I hear they have every reason to hate you. That's their reality. Hatred and suffering and eternal imprisonment. They're stuck here, just as we are, and nothing we can do will change that. And what with that_ thing _lurking in the deep – not even death will be an escape, for this one. Watch out for that thing. Only one person may die here. Make it the Warden._

 _We can forge a new reality._

 _Don't get me wrong. We're doing them as much a favour as ourselves. It can't get any worse, after all._

/-/

"You don't seem at all worried by the Fume Knight," Lautrec said, reclining in his chair.

General Ironwood paced about the interrogation room, one hand stroking his chin. He kept his silence, trying to prompt Lautrec to fill the gap.

"I'm certainly worried about him," Lautrec continued. "More so than this whole murder business."

"I could lock you up for the rest of your life over it."

"What happens in Vacuo stays in Vacuo. It's out of your jurisdiction, isn't it?"

Technically, he was right – but given that Lautrec had killed one of the Maidens, he was sure June wouldn't mind. "You've told us everything you know about the Fume Knight, haven't you?"

Lautrec hummed his assent.

"Then I see no point in pursuing the topic here." Ironwood stopped his pacing. It was possible that Lautrec was keeping more from them – but then, the prisoner seemed rather concerned about his own safety, and the Fume Knight was a direct threat. He doubted that Lautrec would lie on that front. It simply wasn't in his interests.

The Queen, though. She was a worry. Given the Knight's apparent interest in the Maidens – or rather, the killer of a Maiden, it was entirely possible that the Queen was the one who'd attacked Amber. Was it possible for someone to possess the powers of multiple Maidens? Ironwood wasn't sure, and by the sound of it neither was Ozpin.

"Why did you kill Anastacia?" Ironwood asked, not for the first time.

And again, not for the first time, Lautrec stayed silent.

"Your aura anomaly – it began after her death?"

It had been a simple matter of hooking up Lautrec to the aura reader of a scroll to test Ozpin's hunch. The reader had gone completely haywire, and Ironwood had quickly sent for Doctor Polendina. The doctor was to arrive on Sunday, in two days' time – as was Councilman Sulyvahn for that matter. Not that they were travelling together. Doctor Polendina was unbelievably stubborn on that front.

"I've told you everything I care to," Lautrec said, "and you won't get anything else from me."

Again. Nothing.

Ironwood felt like the only one who _cared_ about why Lautrec had killed Anastacia. Lautrec obviously didn't, or at least acted that way. Ozpin too wasn't concerned, apparently taking the stance that the enemy of his enemy was his friend, and that the Fume Knight was an enemy.

Which was a fair assumption, all things considered, but Ironwood wasn't quite yet ready to consider Lautrec a friend.

"Very well then," Ironwood said. Lautrec could feel free to sit tight in his cell until Doctor Polendina arrived.

"That's it?"

"That's it for now," Ironwood said.

"The cell's not all it was talked up to be," muttered Lautrec darkly.

"Nobody talked them up. You will be safe there - as will everybody else." The door to the interrogation room opened, and Ironwood motioned for the guards to return Lautrec to his cell.

Ironwood clasped his hands behind his back and closed his eyes to the empty room, sparing himself a second to gather his thoughts. The Fume Knight. The Queen. The infiltrator at the CCT. Torchwick and the woman in red. The White Fang. The Paladins. To borrow Ozpin's favourite metaphor, all were pieces on a chessboard. Some, perhaps, were even the same piece.

And then there was Lautrec, seemingly caught in the middle.

Torchwick, at least, was accounted for – but he was even more stubborn than Lautrec, unwilling to even acknowledge the existence of his superior, let alone divulge an identity. The Paladins too – all the missing prototypes were recovered from the tunnels of Mountain Glenn. But there was clearly a breach in security there. The Paladins had been snatched out from right under Atlas' nose.

That was a place to start.

But there were few leads to follow up on. It was hardly as if he could question the White Fang about it. Those captured in the aftermath of the Breach were fresh recruits, little more than cannon fodder. And in the short time since, White Fang activity had completely died down.

An internal investigation, then. A risk, to be sure – so close to the Vytal tournament, it was imperative to maintain order in the ranks, but if there was a mole they had to be caught. A job for a trusted specialist, then. Vordt had been overseeing the Paladin project during the early stages, so it wouldn't be out of the ordinary for him to return to the facility.

The Queen… a name that didn't bode well. Ironwood's hunch was that the infiltrator Artorias had fought and the woman Ruby had fought were both the same person – they'd both fought with dust, and from what little the students had seen seemed to share similar appearances. Was this the Queen? Perhaps. Either way, the Queen was a _name_ , a _title_ – as was the Fume Knight – and perhaps a name was all he needed.

It was time to read some old fairy tales.

/-/

"Shield up! Defensive stance!"

Jaune did so, placing his left foot forward and raising his sword so it pointed over the top of his shield, his eyes fixed on the empty air before him. Pyrrha alone sat in the stands, watching.

"Your team is being flanked by an Ursa, Mr Arc. Get its attention! It should be focused on _you,_ not them."

Jaune let out a roar to the empty air and allowed his blade to dip lower, once, twice, bouncing off the top of his shield to clang loudly.

"Think negatively, Mr Arc."

Vengarl had since dispensed with using live Grimm to test him, but throughout training he'd continued calling out that Jaune should use Grimm bait. As before, he filled his mind with his parents' voices. He had to admit, he was a _little_ concerned that focusing so much on something so negative would change the way he saw them, but it did the job. It would have to do.

"Focus, Mr Arc. Your stance is slipping."

His shield jerked up into position.

"Is the Ursa focused on you, Mr Arc?"

He nodded.

"Drill three!"

Another roar. Jaune leapt forwards, his sword darting over the top of his shield. His feet hit the ground half a moment later, and his right arm came back to chamber a strike, shield arm locked in place. His weight shifted to his back foot, and then he pushed forwards, shield slamming upwards. It came back to him briefly, then forwards again, using his arm for power this time in a move that would surely push through the guard of all but the strongest Grimm. Finally, his sword came arcing horizontally, right to left, then left to right, and by then his shield was back in place. He danced backwards to reset.

One, short nod from Vengarl. "Good."

Muscle memory, he'd said. Muscle memory was all-important – one should not be forced to be constantly coming up with attacks in the middle of a fight. He just had to have a handful that he could react with without even thinking. He'd thought he _could_ , to be honest – he'd come away from the Breach safely enough, not to mention that was doing better against Pyrrha than he used to. But perhaps, Vengarl had suggested, he was simply getting used to combatting her particular style. And Grimm were small game anyway, he'd said.

Sure, they weren't as dangerous to him as they'd once been, but Jaune struggled to imagine them as 'small game'.

"That's enough for today," said Vengarl. "I'm aware that it's the weekend tomorrow, but I'd like to continue your training regardless."

Jaune nodded. He didn't have any plans set in stone, though he'd like to spend the time studying with Ren. Exams were coming up, after all.

"I won't keep you long tomorrow," Vengarl said. "Oh – and bring your team."

"Sure," Jaune said, catching Pyrrha's eye. She nodded back to him. Vengarl started towards the door. "Uh – Vengarl?"

"Yes?"

"I was just, uh, well, I was wondering why you wanted to train _me_ ," Jaune said, rubbing the back of his head.

Vengarl's face was blank. He glanced between Jaune and Pyrrha, then sighed. "Do you wish your teammate to hear this as well?"

"Should I not?"

"It's fine, don't worry about it," Pyrrha assured him. "If it's private-"

"It's not particularly," Vengarl said. "But I am a private man, and if Mr Arc wishes for this to remain private, I will respect that."

"I still don't know what _this_ is," Jaune said.

"I suppose not." Vengarl ran a hand through his thin hair. "If I were in your position, Mr Arc, I'd want my teammates to hear this. Does that help you reach a decision?"

"Do you want to hear it?" Jaune asked Pyrrha.

"Of course."

"Then sure," Jaune said. "She can hear it."

Vengarl nodded, placing his hand on the door handle. "Come with me," he said.

He led them through Beacon's winding corridors towards the west wing of the school. Jaune and Pyrrha both kept their silence throughout. At length they reached Vengarl's quarters. He let them in. They were somewhat more spacious than the student's dorms, with a small kitchen to the right and a lounge suite – the bed was even in a separate room.

That Jaune considered multiple rooms a novelty spoke of how quickly he'd become accustomed to Beacon's small dorms.

"Take that photo from the wall," Vengarl called.

"Uh…"

"Next to you."

Jaune looked to his left. On the wall next to the door was a framed photo of three young figures. One was clearly Vengarl. The other two were both fair-haired, a man and a woman.

"Take a seat." Vengarl made his way to the kitchen, rummaging around in cabinets while Pyrrha and Jaune sat on a couch. "Do either of you drink?"

"Sir?" Pyrrha asked, startled.

Vengarl sighed, but didn't correct her.

"No?" Jaune guessed. He'd had a sip of beer once – and hadn't really liked it. Though, he _had_ once had a glass of wine, and that hadn't been too bad. But no, he wasn't really a drinker.

"Not really," Pyrrha said.

Vengarl pulled out a bottle of liquor. "Would you like a drink, Miss Nikos?"

"No thank you."

"Water?"

"Yes please."

Vengarl poured two glasses of whiskey and one of water.

"Don't I get an option?" Jaune asked.

"No," Vengarl said. He sat across from them, putting Jaune's glass on a little coffee table between them. He sipped at his own drink. "I suppose I should start at the beginning," Vengarl said.

Jaune and Pyrrha were silent.

"I was born… gods, is it that long? One hundred and three years ago, in a little town called Forossa," Vengarl said. At Jaune's side, Pyrrha let out a low whistle. "It was on the east coast of Sanus, settled by both Mistral and Vale – but we lived further up the coast than most such towns, where natural borders were… well, they were lacking. Every man, woman, and child in Forossa learned to fight. We had to, to survive. Didn't last forever, of course. The town was sacked by Mantle in the second year of the war.

"We scattered. Many of the survivors became mercenaries. Some stuck it out into the wilds by themselves. I journeyed to Vale and joined the army at the tender age of fifteen." He snorted to himself. "The minimum age to enlist was eighteen, of course, but a few forged papers and a strong desire to stick it to Mantle was enough to get me in. I was young, idealistic, naïve – and not quite as good a fighter as I thought I was."

Jaune and Pyrrha shared a glance. Something about that hit a little _too_ close to home.

"Obviously I'm still alive, so I must have done something right. I marched under Commander Joseph Arc for the rest of the war. A good man, and a good friend." He gestured to the photo.

"This is my great-great-grandfather?"

"I don't know. I guess so. I lost touch with your family after Joseph died."

Jaune looked down to the photo. He didn't look that much different to himself. Blond hair, blue eyes, a strangely goofy smile. And the woman next to him – she too shared some features. Similar eyes, similar hair – though perhaps a little darker… "Is this my great-great-grandmother?"

Vengarl's face turned grim. "No. She died in the war." He lifted his drink in a toast. Jaune and Pyrrha did the same, then they drank.

Jaune nearly gagged as it went down.

"I shared my first real drink with Joseph," Vengarl chuckled. "It went down much the same way."

Jaune breathed heavily and gave a thumbs up of acknowledgement. Pyrrha patted his back soothingly. "What was he like?" she asked.

"He never lauded his rank over us and rarely issued disciplines, but we all respected him anyway because he was one of us. He was just another soldier who happened to call the shots. And he was a damn good shot-caller. I'd be dead a hundred times over if a lesser man had had his job."

"What happened to him? I mean, after the war," Jaune asked.

"We went our separate ways. I was busy at Beacon, so the next time I heard from him, he was inviting me to his wedding."

"Beacon?"

"I was the combat instructor here," Vengarl said. "I worked here for sixty years, give or take." He smiled a little, then shook himself, seeming to gather his thoughts. "Nevermind that. Joseph was murdered twenty years after the end of the war."

"What?" Jaune had never heard _that_ part of his ancestor's story. But then, he hadn't known much to begin with.

"I don't know who killed him, though I have my suspicions. Joseph made a lot of enemies, and some people couldn't put aside old grudges, even after Vytal." He shrugged. "But there you have it. I offered to train you because I'm a sentimental old man who misses an old friend."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

Jaune frowned. "Why didn't you just tell me, then?"

"Like I said, Mr Arc, I'm a private man. I keep to myself."

Jaune nodded in acceptance. He glanced back down to the photo. "All my life I heard stories of ancestors who were heroes," he said. "I always wanted to be like them. It's why I'm here."

Vengarl scoffed. "There are no heroes in war, least of all _that_ war. Joseph was a good soldier, a brilliant tactician, and a damn good fighter to boot, but he wasn't a _hero_. Learn of him and learn from him all you want, Mr Arc, but do not idolise him. You didn't sign up to be a hero, you signed up to be a Huntsman. There's a difference."

He stood, rolled his shoulders, then returned to the kitchen. "Are you glad you listened, Miss Nikos?"

"Who was the woman? The one who died in the war?" Pyrrha asked.

Vengarl, putting away the bottle of liquor, hesitated. After a moment's consideration, he poured himself another glass. "Her name was Lucatiel," he said, his voice quieter than usual. "And that's all you need to know." He downed his drink.

"Are you alright, sir?" Pyrrha asked.

"I'm fine." Vengarl sighed, and put the liquor away. "Forgive an old man his memories. I'll see you both tomorrow morning."

/-/

"And then he said he was fine, and he dismissed us, and that was that."

It was early the next morning, and Ruby was listening to Jaune tell her about Vengarl's story as they walked through Beacon. He'd prefaced it by saying that Vengarl didn't sound quite as alright as he acted, and that he thought Ruby should know, because _clearly_ Ruby knew Vengarl better than Jaune did.

Which if Ruby was being totally honest, wasn't entirely true. Sure, they'd had that one mission – but Vengarl had been training Jaune all week!

"He's a hundred and three years old?" Ruby was honestly still struggling with that part. A hundred and three years was a very, _very_ long time.

"Yup."

She'd known that he was an old man, but still. A hundred and three. Maybe she'd live to be that old as well. Maybe Yang would stop treating her like a kid by that point.

If Yang was still alive, at least. Ruby's eyes darkened. That was a sobering thought. Oh god – Vengarl had outlived all his friends. That sounded lonely. No wonder he didn't like talking about it.

"Do you think he trained all the teachers here?"

"Hmm?"

"I mean, if he was the combat instructor – do you think he taught Professor Goodwitch and Oobleck and Port?"

"I dunno," Jaune shrugged. "Maybe."

Maybe he'd even taught her parents! And Uncle Qrow, of course. Qrow had never mentioned Vengarl, though – but to be fair, Qrow hadn't told her about any of his other teachers, or much at all about his time at Beacon. Whenever it was brought up, he'd mutter something about blond bastards and that it was a story for when she was older.

"Do you think he'd teach us?"

"What?"

"Team RWBY. I mean, if your whole team is training today…"

"He didn't say that," Jaune corrected. "Just that he wanted us all there."

"What else could you be doing?" Ruby asked.

Jaune paused, grimaced, then nodded. "Good point."

"I mean, it's not like Ren and Nora and Pyrrha have ancestors he knew and he wants to train them too because of it, right?" Ruby asked. Jaune shrugged. "Uh… right?"

"Maybe? I don't know. Probably not, though."

"He would have said something, yeah?"

"He's a private man," Jaune said, doing a rather poor but still recognisable impression of the old man. Ruby laughed quietly.

"I'm just saying, if he's fine with training them, he'd be fine with training us too, right?"

"I don't know. May as well ask him."

Ruby nodded. "I will then! Afterwards, though. We're busy today."

"Yeah? What's up? Weiss isn't making you study super hard, is she?"

"Kinda. But no. We're up to super-secret world-saving stuff."

"How secret is it?"

"Yarrow. It's that Yarrow lead we've wanted to chase up for _ages_ ," she said.

"The what now?" someone said. Ruby looked over; Mercury was just leaving his dorm.

"Hey, Mercury." Mercury was alright, in Ruby's books. He seemed to prefer to let Emerald speak for him, which was kinda what Ruby did with Yang. Well, with strangers anyway. But Mercury was opening up to them a bit now.

It seemed to take Mercury a second to register that he was being directly addressed. "Good morning and all that – so, what's this world-saving business, and how can I get in on it?"

"I've gotta go," Jaune said. "I'll see you later."

"Put in a good word for us!" Ruby called. "So, anyway, world-saving – earlier in the semester we found out that one of Roman Torchwick's allies was in contact with a forger called – uh, I don't remember his first name, but Yarrow. A guy called Yarrow."

"Huh. That sounds interesting. But Roman Torchwick's locked up now. Is it really that important?"

"Maybe? I don't know. Might as well find out, you know?"

Mercury paused, pinched the bridge of his nose, then in a dry voice said, "Good on you for taking the initiative and hunting him down, then."

"Well, we haven't yet, but…"

"Mind if I tag along?" Mercury asked. "I might be able to help."

Ruby smiled brightly. "Sure!" she said. "Why not?"

/-/

"Remind me to never go to a museum ever again," Artorias grumbled, earning a few haughty looks from the upper-class folk around the exhibit. The new exhibit opened today, and so the museum was more packed than usual – which probably wasn't saying much, if Artorias was being totally honest. The only people who normally went to a museum were people on school trips and tourists.

"Everything here has a history," Ciaran gushed, close by his side. "Even the _building_ does. You know this used to be the royal palace? It was repurposed after the war."

"It's an old building. There are lots of old buildings. Woohoo."

"We're just here to see one thing, Artorias," Gilderoy said. "Then we can go back to Beacon."

Artorias frowned. He was looking for a scathing retort, some kind of normalcy. He glanced to Ciaran and Gough – neither offered an insult.

Honestly, he was fine. They didn't have to tread lightly around him.

"Seriously – I'd rather study than do this."

Silence. Really? None of them had anything to offer? Artorias rolled his eyes and followed his team deeper into the museum.

"And the whole team had to come along to look at this _one bloody letter_ ," he muttered, more to himself than anybody else. He was sure Ciaran heard him, but she didn't glare at him.

In all honesty, the exhibit wasn't _that_ bad. It was certainly comprehensive enough, including everything from old photos to rusted swords – there was even a prototype airship. Apparently it had been made before gravity dust had been synthesised, and had instead run on burn dust for thrust and wind dust for lift. It was quite small even compared to a Bullhead, let alone the modern Atlesian warships.

"See? Pre-grav dust flight – that's impressive, isn't it?" Ciaran prompted.

"It's alright," Artorias acknowledged grudgingly. Although…

It did give him some ideas on how he could use dust in the tournament. _Bad_ ideas, to be sure, but ideas nonetheless.

"Found it," Gilderoy called. Artorias and Ciaran made their way over. Within a protective glass case were numerous documents of the period, and Gilderoy was pointing to one in particular.

"And what are we going to find that countless historians haven't?" Artorias asked. His question went ignored.

The letter was blurred and torn. The first words he could make out were _doubt… poor progress… perhaps two..._

Then, a few more lines down, almost a complete sentence: _reconsider… sake of the people._ Then another blur, then: _we swore an oath to Vale… judgement… Operation Mirrah._

Then, as part of the next paragraph: _Mirrah… command… duty... not on the grounds._

The only line that was untouched, fully legible, was the one just above the illegible signature: _I await your reply._

"I said this was a bust," Artorias said. "Did you listen? Nope." Damn near nothing could be gleaned from the letter.

"Not everything I say or do needs to have an explanation. Not a logical one, at least." Artorias looked up – Professor Ozpin was standing behind them, watching them.

"Why did you ask me about it, then?" Gilderoy asked.

"I believe I just did away with logic," Ozpin smiled. "Never mind Operation Mirrah. Walk with me, Mr Ornstein."

"I'm hurt."

"Mr Nym, I think you said you'd rather study than spend another minute in this place."

"It's rude to drop eaves."

"Perhaps. It'd be irresponsible to keep you from your studies, however. Between courtesy and responsibility, I'd rather choose the latter." Ozpin nodded briefly to Gough and Ciaran, then led Gilderoy away.

"Well then," Artorias said, after a moment's pause, "I'm going back to Beacon. Are you with me, or are you waiting for Gil?"

"I'll wait," Gough said.

"I'll come with," Ciaran said.

"Don't like it here?"

"I'd rather study."

"You'd rather make sure _I_ study," Artorias corrected.

"I'd rather study," Ciaran repeated, turning up her nose at him.

"Then I'm free not to study?"

"No."

/-/

"Do you write, Mr Ornstein?"

"Hmm?"

"Write letters. Some find the practice to be therapeutic."

Gilderoy shrugged. He'd grown up in an age of technology. Why write letters when the CCT enabled instant communication? "No," he said. "Do you?"

"No. When I wish to gather my thoughts, I play chess."

"Hmm."

They walked in silence for a while. Ozpin eventually brought Gilderoy back to the main foyer. The walls were lined with paintings, cases were full of sculptures. All of them were modern creations dedicated to the men and women who had fought and died in the war. All of them save for a massive painting of a lonely mountain top which loomed over the whole room.

"Logical or not, why ask about Operation Mirrah?"

Ozpin didn't answer. "What do you think of this?" he asked, gesturing to the painting of the mountain.

For one, it was big, so big that standing so close it was as though he was really there, inside the painting. It filled all his vision. He could almost imagine the chilly wind biting on his skin.

"It's… disorienting," he said.

"I suppose that's one answer," Ozpin mused. He sighed, and rested one hand heavily on his cane while the other reached into a pocket. He leaned in close, and whispered two words to Gilderoy: "Touch it."

"What?"

"Touch the painting. It's remarkable. It feels cool to the touch, like the snow it depicts. Some say that dust was mixed into the paint."

"Why, though? Won't somebody – I don't know – arrest me for it?" Ozpin was worrying him, in all honesty. He was sure it wasn't normal for the headmaster of a Huntsman academy to encourage students to touch priceless artefacts that they definitely _shouldn't_ touch.

Although… June would probably do something similar, if the whim took her.

"Don't worry about security," Ozpin said. "I've spoken to them."

The look on his face said that he definitely had _not_ spoken to security.

"I can't get detention for this, and if I get arrested it's your fault," Gilderoy said. Ozpin nodded, and gestured for Gilderoy to go ahead.

He did so.

Ozpin was right. It _was_ cool to the touch, far lower than room temperature, but not freezing as one would expect of snow. It was pleasant, almost.

He returned to Ozpin, who seemed to have a great weight lifted from his chest. "What do you think now?"

"I wasn't aware you could mix dust into paint."

"You can't. Well – modern artists certainly can't. It can get explosive. This painting is ancient. Nobody can make a convincing forgery without rediscovering the technique." He took his hand from his pocket and patted down his suit jacket, drawing forth a scroll. "Thank you for your time, Mr Ornstein. Good luck with your exams."

"You haven't answered my question," Gilderoy asked. "Why are you interested in _me_? Why ask _me_ about Operation Mirrah? Why ask _me_ about the painting?"

"Curiosity," said Ozpin. "Make of that what you will."

"But-"

"Every unanswered question breeds curiosity," Ozpin said. "And right now, you have many unanswered questions. Perhaps you will find answers. Perhaps they'll be the right answers. But I _do_ want to see how you go about searching them out."

"Why me?" It sounded more like an excuse to not answer any more questions than a valid reason.

"Good luck with your search," Ozpin said, then he disappeared into the crowd.

/-/

 _I cannot help but express my doubt over the Mantle campaign. One small foothold is poor progress indeed. It would take another legion - perhaps two - to break their line, and even then the loss of life would be too great a cost to bear._

 _That is not why I write, however, though I beg of you to reconsider for the sake of the people. Need I remind you: we swore an oath to Vale, not to you. I, for one, will trust your judgement (for better or for worse) but others may not be so willing to throw away their lives for Operation Mirrah._

 _I write to request that one Lucatiel of Mirrah be reinstated under my command. I assure you, I did not report her as being unfit for duty - certainly not on the grounds of insanity. I saw no sign that there was anything wrong with her at all - in fact, she was one of my best._

 _I await your reply._

 _Joseph Arc, Commander of the Blue Legion of Vale._

* * *

 **On account of me writing future chapters rather than this one this week, it's a little short. Oh well. The good news is that someone unironically uses the line 'Another dogged contender' later this volume. The meme lives on.**

 **Another chapter, another monologue. This time he's talking about an androgynous someone, and it's probably the first androgynous someone you'd think of when considering Dark Souls. No, not Anri. The other one.**

 **Ironwood makes the mistake of trusting his specialists implicitly. Sulyvahn's here next chapter, though, so I can finally throw down his game plan. By which I mean 'vaguely hint at it'.**

 **Vengarl gives his backstory - most of it, at least.**

 **I'll go further into why the Yarrow subplot's been stretched so long once it's resolved. I've got just a _little_ further to stretch it yet.**

 **Operation Mirrah's a dead end for Team GWIN, but it's important information for the reader, so there's another letter for y'all. Ozpin's all mysterious and stuff. He's got the wrong guy, and he knows it. Now he just has to pretend he knows what he's doing.**

 **Next chapter - July 28th.**


	21. Chapter 20: Brawl

_Take a good look, friend._

 _I want to call this one an abomination. A Grimm given life by semblance – a hereditary one, so they say. There's power in blood after all. Bloodlines, at the very least. But no matter._

 _It's a Grimm of aura and substance. It's developed thought. It's certainly had long enough. Maybe it's even had long enough to lose it again. Maybe I have too. I'm sure it's lived far longer than its creator. An abomination indeed._

 _I tried, you know. I tried to control it. Then this plan would be flawless. No risk for all the reward. Well, for me at least. But don't worry. I failed, obviously – what use would I have for you otherwise? Maybe I should have stopped there. Given up. But where would that have left us? I'd be nothing. You'd be nothing._

 _Now, at least, you and me? We have a chance. And the rest of the world can burn._

/-/

"Fuck my life," Mercury muttered.

It turned out that when the stupid first year brat had said 'Yarrow' that she'd really meant it. Mercury had only met the man once, letting Roman and Neo handle the business end of the deal on his behalf. He'd just stepped in for the cleanup. Well, he and Em, at least.

Yarrow's house was in the poor part of the city, far from the airship docks. Suffice to say, it was a long walk, and the whole damn way he had to put up with incessant chatter from Ruby, and Yang's terribly jokes, and Weis just _existing_ , and Blake…

Actually, Blake was bearable, if only because it was so easy to forget she was there – not necessarily a good thing, should they ever come to blows, but for the time being it was welcome. She was quiet, speaking only when she had something she thought worth saying. "We should temper our expectations," for example. "Yarrow's been missing a while. There might be nothing to find."

Mercury certainly hoped so. He and Emerald had cleaned the house out thoroughly, making sure that nothing was left behind to incriminate them. But forgers – good ones at least – were crafty sorts, saving evidence of their work in unexpected places so they had something with which to blackmail their clients should something go wrong. It was possible, if unlikely, that they'd missed something.

Yarrow's house was a run-down decrepit place, and it had been even before he'd died. The door was slightly ajar on its hinges, the wood rotting away, the paint peeling from the walls both inside and out.

It hadn't been _quite_ this bad before.

"She's a fixer-upper, but she'll do," Yang quipped, pushing the door fully open.

Inside, it reeked of food gone bad. They found themselves stood in what was once the living room – one old, stiff sofa in front of a low coffee table, facing a projector that probably hadn't worked in years. A countertop separated them from a small kitchen, though calling it such was generous. Cupboards were ajar and empty, the stovetop crusted over with… well, Mercury wasn't sure what it was, and he didn't want to know.

"What a charming place," Weiss drawled, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

"I've seen worse," Mercury muttered.

"That's hard to imagine," said Yang.

"I'm from Mistral. You should see the slums," he said, though that wasn't what he'd initially been referring too.

"Hmm? I've found Mistral to be a lovely place," Weiss said.

"On the surface, perhaps," Blake corrected. Weiss hummed in acknowledgement, though she offered nothing further. "Forgers – good ones, at least – tend to keep what they call an insurance drive."

"A what now?" Ruby asked.

"Something to give to the police if their clients screw them over," Blake explained. "Or just to blackmail them with. Most keep records of what the kind of document forged and who it was for, and some even keep copies of the document."

 _Call her out. Discredit it, and they may not think to look for it._ "I've never heard of that before," he said. "Where'd you hear about it?"

"Long story. _Should_ you have heard of it?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Mistral," he said, by way of explanation. "Where crime's almost as bad as Vacuo, but with more paperwork." His little attempt at sabotage had gone poorly, but he could hardly push the matter further without drawing attention to himself.

"Well." Ruby clapped her hands together. "I guess we should… I don't know, look around? Could two of you check down the hall?"

"I'll do it," Mercury offered.

"I'll come with," said Yang. That was unfortunate. If he needed to get away, or if he needed to overpower them, he'd rather deal with Weiss first. But it was hardly like he could object.

Branching off from the living room was a short hallway lined with cupboards. At the end, to the left, was the bathroom and the toilet, which stank even worse than the kitchen. One door led to what was once Yarrow's office, which he and Emerald had already checked and found nothing. The other door led to the bedroom.

"That right there is a terminal," Yang said, entering the office. "Score."

"Do you really think he'd leave things in plain sight?"

"Worth a try, right?" She sat down in the office chair – then got up again and kicked the chair away. "Ew."

Leaning over, she booted the terminal up. The screen blinked and asked for a password.

"Well, damn," Mercury drawled. "I guess we should all just go home now." He knew the password, of course – it was 'password'. He and Em had already checked Yarrow's terminal. Somehow, it was clean. He must have done his illicit work elsewhere.

"Not a bad idea. Just _being_ here makes me want a shower," Yang mused. She punched in a password. It worked.

"What was it?" Mercury asked, if only because he knew she'd expect him to.

"Password," she smirked. "I thought this guy knew what he was doing."

"Apparently not." Not that it mattered. Yang wouldn't find anything – not here, at least.

"I'm gonna check the other room."

"Sure, sure," Yang said, waving to dismiss him.

He departed, made his way down the short hallway, pushed the bedroom door open, and stepped inside.

The first thing he noticed was that the carpet had been torn up, revealing an open trapdoor in the floor that he and Em _definitely_ hadn't seen before. The second thing he noticed was that the curtains – curtains which also hadn't been there, and which looked in far better shape than the rest of the house – were drawn. And the third thing he noticed was the sound of the door locking behind him.

He spun, chambering a kick, only to see a man standing behind him, a finger over his lips. Mercury obliged… in a sense.

He kicked, but didn't fire a shot off from his boot. Gunfire drew attention.

"What the devil?" hissed the stranger, using both arms to knock the kick aside. "Stop!"

"Why should I?"

"This is my house!"

"No it isn't."

"Okay, you're right. I'm squatting, alright? Same thing."

Just a civilian, then. Mercury almost relaxed, before recalling the speed with which the 'civilian' had reacted to his attack. He peered closer, getting a better look – an angular face with slanted eyes looked back at him.

"What's this?" Mercury asked, gesturing behind him to the trapdoor. If there was evidence down there, he needed to get his hands on it before Team RWBY.

"How many of you are there?" asked the squatter.

"Four more. What's down there?"

"Mercury!" Yang called. The door shook. "You in there?"

"Mercury?" The squatter muttered. His eyes sparked. "You're one of hers."

Mercury narrowed his eyes. "What do you-"

"Mercury?"

"Door's stuck, just – uh, hold on a minute!" the squatter called back, doing a rather unflattering impression of Mercury's own voice.

"What do you mean, stuck? Are you alright? You sound unwell."

"Hold on," Mercury called, gritting his teeth. "What do you know?" He hissed, now to the stranger, settling once more into a fighting stance.

"Ah-ah-ah," the stranger tutted. "I've had a lot of time on my hands, you know? The forger kept everything, and I've read it _all._ I could blow your cover in an instant. Medical records, wasn't it? Boring records, though, I tell you what. Shoulda thrown in some allergies, some phobias… hell, maybe some mental disabilities. I hear schizophrenia is popular."

Mercury hesitated. They'd had the medical records forged so he'd be able to hide his less-than-organic legs from the tournament officials. Team RWBY wouldn't be able to discover _that_ little advantage just from reading the forgery, but that it had been forged at all – and paid for by _Neo_ , of all people…

Incriminating. Not good.

"What do you want?"

Outside, he could hear vague muttering from Team RWBY. The door shuddered again as something slammed into it. "Oh yeah, Mercury, you might want to stand back," Yang said.

"Tell her I said to let Raime fail," said the stranger. "She'll understand."

"And who are you?"

"Names are precious things," he smirked. "But if she wants one… hmm… Lapp will do."

Mercury nodded slowly, committing it to memory. "You'll keep the forgery secret?"

He smiled broadly. "Of course, friend. You're going to have to help with that, though. All his equipment, all his _files_ – just down there." He gestured towards the trapdoor, behind Mercury. "There's a ladder, don't you worry. Just be sure to deliver the message, and we're even."

The door shuddered again.

Mercury nodded again and turned towards the hole, peering down into the darkness. He couldn't see a ladder, but he could clearly see a desk, numerous writing implements on it – a gutted terminal in the corner, wiring hanging loose-

Something slammed into his back.

He tumbled forwards, grunting a little in surprise, then letting out a heavy breath of air as he struck the concrete face-down.

"Sorry, friend!" Lapp whispered, though it was the sort of loud whisper that still carried a considerable distance. Mercury pushed himself back up and looked above him. The stranger was holding his _wallet_ , of all things – and what was that in his other hand? A little data chip.

Bastard. And there wasn't even a ladder. That made him a _lying_ bastard. Fuck.

"That was just for fun, though. You'll still deliver the message, won't you? Otherwise, this'll find itself on Ozpin's desk. And – maybe a few more favours besides? Oh, why not?" He leaned in closer, his voice dropping quieter. "I have a feeling we're going to-"

The door rattled again, and there was a resounding _crack_ – were they just trying to tear a hole through it? Idiots. Lapp paused to look away, his brow furrowing.

Mercury considered using recoil to boost himself out – but then, Team RWBY would certainly hear the gunfire, and Lapp wouldn't like to have his cover blown. And right now, when he held the one little thing that could uncover Cinder's operation, he wanted to stay in Lapp's good books.

"It's time to go," said the stranger, grinning like a loon – then his face disappeared, and light began to stream in from above soon after.

It was a minute more before Team RWBY finally broke through the door. Yang's face appeared in the hole. "A very nice door you got here," she said. "Very stuck."

Mercury rolled his eyes, but didn't respond.

"Seems to me like _you're_ the one stuck. Don't lock the door next time, okay? I mean – I understand privacy and all, but we were so _worried_ -"

"We get it, Yang," Blake said. "What's down there?"

Mercury glanced around. A desk, covered in quills and pens with varying nibs and many, _many_ pots of ink. In the corner, a document scanner, and against the wall, a terminal with its data chip removed.

"Nothing of use," he said.

Nods from above. Blake threw down her ribbon for him to climb back out.

"Did you guys find anything?" Mercury asked, dusting himself off. The curtains were now open, as was the window – he assumed that was how Lapp had made his escape.

"I found myself," Yang quipped. "Went on a whole journey of self-discovery. You could almost say I _forged_ myself anew."

Dead silence. Mercury could have sworn he heard crickets chirping.

"There was a lot of blood in the bathroom," Blake said, after a long, _long_ glare at Yang. "Fresh, too. It couldn't have been from when Yarrow went missing."

"Fresh blood," Yang mused. "That's a… nice way to put it."

"Well, I'm out," Mercury said, more relieved than anything. As long as they didn't run afoul of Lapp, they could investigate whatever they wanted. "We've got team practice later," he said, as an excuse.

"Lame," Yang teased. "Nice job with the, uh, with the pit, Merc." She stretched, and let out a long yawn. "We may as well head back with you, right?" She looked to her team for approval, getting nods all around.

Mercury suppressed a groan. "You're not going to look into all the blood everywhere?"

"There's not really much we can do," Weiss said. "We don't have the resources."

"It kinda sucks," Ruby agreed. "The most we can do is let the police know."

"And they're not too likely to look into it, unfortunately," Blake said. "It's not like this happened to a councilman, or a CEO. This is the most crime-infested part of the city."

Mercury felt his stomach dropping. He _really_ didn't want to spend any more time around them than necessary. "Well then," he said, forcing a smile, "back to Beacon?"

"Back to Beacon."

Internally, Mercury was screaming.

/-/

"I'm generally not one to say 'I told you so', but-"

" _You did tell me so, I know. So I was wrong – I've been wrong before. It was a chance I felt I had to take."_

Ozpin turned back to his desk, sipping at his coffee. June's face, projected from the desk, wore a deep frown. _"For what it's worth, I'm sorry for putting that burden on you."_

"I've dealt with worse," Ozpin dismissed. He could have sworn he could hear Lucatiel snorting, but, glancing around the office, he couldn't see her.

He had to remind himself that she wouldn't be real anyway.

June sighed and moved on. _"This is very concerning, though. Lautrec, the Fume Knight, the incident with the painting – not to mention the infiltrator at the CCT. Have you heard from Qrow?"_

"Not for a while," Ozpin admitted.

" _You need allies, Ozpin. Allies in Vale. If Logan could handle matters here by himself, I'd join you there."_

"I'm meeting with Vengarl in a minute," he said. "I intend to convince him to stay longer."

" _Good,"_ said June. _"And good luck. I was surprised to hear he was staying at all."_

"He's taken an interest in Jaune Arc," said Ozpin.

" _Should we be interested too?"_

"Vengarl was a friend of the family. Mr Arc is notable only for being close with Miss Rose and Miss Nikos."

" _And you want Pyrrha to be the Maiden."_ June shook her head. _"I said I'd trust your judgement in this, but she_ is _a well-known figure."_

"She's also a talented fighter in her first year. She'll be safe within Beacon's walls for three more years," said Ozpin. "I'd consider Miss Xiao Long if she weren't so prone to seeking out trouble."

" _Qrow's certainly left his mark,"_ June mused. The elevator dinged – Vengarl had arrived. _"Very well. Good luck, Ozpin."_

The call ended. "Come in," Ozpin said.

Vengarl stepped into the office, his face unreadable. "Oz," he said, by way of greeting.

Idly, sipping at his coffee, Ozpin wondered about the wisdom of consuming caffeine so late in the evening. "I'm going to be honest with you," he said, "I want you to stay here at Beacon indefinitely. What would that take?"

Vengarl paused, not even at his seat yet. "Straight to the point, I see."

"I'm under a lot of pressure."

"Are you?" Vengarl sat across from him. "There's more to it than just the Maiden, I presume."

"Far more. What do you want to know?"

"Nothing."

Ozpin's brow furrowed. "Nothing?"

"I'm done, Ozpin. I'm old, and I'm tired. I'm done with scheming behind closed doors. I'm done finding new Maidens for you. I'm done with relics and Lords and I'm especially done with reincarnations." He stood again. "I'm sorry to waste your time."

Vengarl was halfway to the elevator when Ozpin made up his mind. "What about closure?"

Vengarl halted in his tracks, and turned. Ozpin brushed a hand against the metal leg of his desk and felt his aura thrum in response. A hidden compartment revealed itself. From it he produced a little doll of wood and straw, ancient, yet humming with dormant power.

"The key to the Painted World?"

Ozpin nodded. "It's yours, if you want it."

"No, it's not." Vengarl shook his head. "If that falls into the wrong hands-"

"Yours aren't the wrong hands."

"I'm not as strong as I used to be, Oz. I don't know that I _could_ protect it, even if I wanted to."

"Sleep on it." Ozpin slipped it back into the hidden compartment, and it closed, seamlessly disappearing into the metal leg. "I want you on my side, Vengarl."

The old man was silent as he left.

/-/

"This is your fault too, Em. We were _both_ at Yarrow's."

Emerald kept chortling with laughter. "He kicked you off a ledge!"

"He was very quiet!"

"He was very quiet," Emerald mocked, breaking out into another fit of laughter.

Cinder did her best to drown them out. _Let Raime fail._ That was something she _had_ considered doing – why should it become her responsibility, after all? But she doubted Salem would be pleased if she didn't help him when he needed it. What was more concerning was this… Lapp.

Perhaps it was Tyrian? He sounded unhinged enough. But then, he was in Mistral last she'd heard, and why would he use a fake name? It definitely wasn't Watts, or Hazel – they simply didn't match the description. But who else knew Raime? Nobody to her knowledge. And he couldn't have been a spy of Ozpin's, or their cover would have already been blown.

 _Let Raime fail._

She didn't have to decide yet – not until the time came, or unless Lapp contacted them again. She needed information first.

She could feel a headache forming, and not just from her subordinates' bickering. Lapp. Sulyvahn. Raime. The Maiden.

She needed more information. She couldn't just let Lapp run around blackmailing them. But who could find him again? Emerald would be occupied with Sulyvahn, soon enough. Mercury, perhaps – but she needed him to stay with the students, to learn who they'd send on to the later rounds and, possibly, to learn when Ozpin chose his Maiden. Neo wasn't an option – the girl was vital to their plan, and her loyalty was in question anyway.

Raime owed her a favour – well, _if_ she ended up helping him – but he wasn't subtle in the slightest.

She could maybe deal with him herself… but out of all her allies, she was the most recognizable. Qrow had seen her face – blurred, perhaps, but he'd likely caught the basic features. The wolf too, and same with the little Rose girl. If she drew _any_ attention to herself this late in the plan, it would be an undue risk.

She gritted her teeth. All she could do was wait. If Lapp contacted them again, she could cow him into submission, perhaps – or just kill him. But she couldn't risk searching him out.

/-/

"Do you think he'd mind?"

The next morning, Team RWBY joined Team JNPR in the training room. Vengarl had yet to arrive – which, Jaune said, was rather unlike him. He was usually punctual.

"Probably?" Jaune said.

"Do you think he'd mind enough to kick us out?"

"Probably not," Pyrrha said.

"He wouldn't," Yang said confidently. "I think he likes us."

"As much as he likes anyone," Nora muttered. "We were practicing team attacks with him yesterday – you should have _seen_ how annoyed-"

"He told her to stay still for two seconds while he worked with Jaune and Pyrrha," Ren said.

"It's outrageous!" Nora complained.

"He was very nice about it."

"How could you teach us something like Flower Power and then expect us to _not_ keep trying it?"

"Flower Power?" Blake asked.

"We named our team attacks," Pyrrha said.

"The names are a work in progress," Ren said.

"I dunno – I kinda like it," Jaune said.

At that moment, the door to the training room opened, and Vengarl entered, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"Morning, Gramps," Yang greeted.

No response. He looked to Jaune. "Spar with Miss Valkyrie," he said. "Focus on deflection. You can't meet brute force with brute force. Miss Valkyrie, no explosives."

"Aww…"

"Miss Nikos, Ren-"

"Are you alright, sir?" Ren asked.

"I'm fine. You two, dismissed."

"Sir?" Pyrrha asked.

"What?"

"You're not alright," Ruby said.

"I'm – Miss Rose, I don't recall inviting your team to these sessions."

They shared a look amongst themselves. "We invited ourselves, sir," said Yang.

"I'm here to-"

"Don't call me sir," Yang said, cutting the man off. "Whatever happened to that?"

He stopped, rubbed at his eyes, then said, "I was getting to it." He sighed. "It's not your fault. I'm just I' – I'm sorry, I need some time alone. I'm sorry to inconvenience you, Team JNPR – would you mind skipping today? We can continue tomorrow after your exams."

"We can help," said Pyrrha.

"I know we don't know each other too well," Ren said, "but if you _do_ , for some reason, want to talk-"

"Very funny, Ren," said Vengarl dryly. "That won't be necessary. And I appreciate it, Miss Nikos, but this isn't something you can help with."

"Not with hugs?" Ruby asked. It was an honest question, too – there were few problems a hug couldn't abate at least a little.

Vengarl snorted. "If only. I'll see you tomorrow as well."

"You mean you'll-"

"That's why you're all here, no? For training?" He shrugged. "Don't make me change my mind."

"We'll be there," Weiss assured him.

"Good." He breathed deeply. "Good."

Ruby took it as a dismissal, and both teams left, shuffling awkwardly out the door.

"Well," said Nora. " _I_ say we make him some pancakes. That always helps _me_."

"We should leave him be," said Jaune.

"We could make pancakes anyway?" she suggested.

"Not to steal Weiss' job," Blake said, "but I actually really need to study."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," Blake said. "Nothing at all."

"She means you're a nerd," Ruby whispered.

"I'm an intellectual, thank you very much! And I thought you said you were already _ready_ for the exams." She levelled a glare at Blake.

Blake's eyes darted left and right. "I lied," she said sheepishly.

"We should probably study too," Jaune said. "I mean, at least we've been spending our time training, so… not a waste, right?"

"I'll join you," Yang said. "Library?" She and Blake left with Team JNPR.

"Et tu, Yang?" Weiss sighed, turning to Ruby. "And I suppose you-"

"Nope."

"Hmm?"

"I'm ready. I've revised all the material, written some practice essays… what's the other thing you said we should do to prepare?"

"Review the criteria?"

"I've done that too," Ruby said proudly. "I'm ready."

Weiss eyed her suspiciously. "Really?"

"I'm not that good at lying."

"Good point." She shrugged. "It never hurts to do it again though."

"Nope."

"We could just sit with them while they study, take some of it in again, internalize it…"

"Nope!"

Weiss shrugged again. "Fine. Well, _I'll_ …" she trailed off, her head tilting as though listening for something.

Ruby listened too. She _could_ hear something. Like a Bullhead, but the sound was quieter, a little lower-pitched perhaps.

Weiss rushed to a window. Outside, a pair of ships flew past, both gleaming white in the sunlight. The smaller had long tassels trailing from its rear, while the larger one had gold plated on its side for decoration.

"She's here." Weiss whispered.

/-/

James Ironwood dismissed the headache gathering behind his right eye. "Sulyvahn!" he greeted.

"James." Councilman Aisling Sulyvahn descended the boarding ramp, garbed in opulent robes of white and purple and gold. "It is good to see you, my friend." He turned to Ozpin. "And Headmaster Ozpin? I don't believe we've met."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Councilman," Ozpin said. They shook hands.

"You've quite a reputation, Headmaster," said Sulyvahn. "The pleasure is mine." He turned to General Ironwood once more. "Forgive me, but it's been a long journey, and I'm to meet with the council of Vale this afternoon. Could your men show me to my quarters? I wouldn't want to bother you."

Bother indeed. Almost as soon as he'd been appointed head of security, Sulyvahn had contacted him about organizing a secure room for him in Beacon, rather than a hotel in Vale. It hadn't been a huge hassle, to be fair – but considering that Sulyvahn wasn't part of the military, it was a strange request.

"Of course," Ironwood said, forcing a small smile. "Right this way."

/-/

"Winter!"

"Your sister?"

Weiss' sister turned to her, flanked by Atlesian Knights, her expression stern and cold. But Weiss knew that underneath the mask, she was glad to see her. "Winter! I'm so happy to see you! Oh – your presence honours us."

"Beacon. It's been a long time. The air feels different." Winter paced forwards.

"I mean, it is Fall, so… it's probably colder." And of course, Ruby had come along too. There was absolutely _no_ way this could go wrong.

Weiss physically deterredRuby from saying anything else.

"So, what are you doing here?" Weiss asked.

"Classified."

"Oh, right. Well, how long are you staying?"

"Classified."

"Of course." That was just the way things were. It was unfortunate – but Weiss understood. Protocol was important in Atlas.

"…well, this is nice… I think." Ruby broke the silence.

"You're going to love it here! I know you travel a lot, but so much of Beacon is different from Atlas! Vale too – the government and school are completely separate. Can you believe it? I-"

"I'm more than familiar with how this kingdom handles it bureaucracy. That is not why I came."

"Right. I'm sorry."

"Specialist Schnee?" A short, balding man descended from the airship, a robot behind him carrying a variety of strange instruments.

"Excuse me," Winter said, addressing Weiss and Ruby. "Your quarters are in the east wing of Beacon, Doctor Polendina. You no longer report to me. Now you report to General Ironwood."

"But-"

"Leave us," she commanded, addressing both the doctor and the robots. He withered under her gaze, and departed towards Beacon, followed by a pair of Atlesian Knights.

"Polendina like Penny?" Ruby asked.

"My apologies," Winter said, addressing them again. "How have you been, Weiss?"

"Oh – splendid! Thank you for asking! I'm actually in the very top ranking of our sparring class. Both myself and my team are quite prepared for the upcoming-"

There was a stinging pain on Weiss' head. It took her a moment to realise that Winter had slapped her. "Silence, you boob! I don't recall asking about your ranking. I asked how you've been. Are you eating properly? Have you taken up any hobbies? Are you making new friends?"

"Well, there's Ruby."

"Heh… boob." Ruby snickered. Weiss sighed.

Winter regarded Ruby with cold eyes. "I see. So, this is the leader you wrote of. How appropriately… underwhelming."

"Ah… thank you."

"Greetings, Ruby Rose. I wish to thank you for taking an interest in my sister."

"Oh, yes, of course! The honour is in my… court!"

Weiss resisted the urge to hold her head in her hands and scream. Honestly, it was sometimes hard to remember that Ruby wasn't a trainwreck _all_ the time.

"I have business with the general and your headmaster. But – seeing as I'm early, why don't you take me to your quarters?"

"Really?"

"Yes. I wish to inspect them and make sure they are up to my personal standards."

"Of course. Just so you're aware, the bunkbeds only _look_ unstable."

"…bunkbeds?" Winter didn't sound impressed.

But nevertheless, Weiss was sure she'd at least be okay with the dorm's setup. Weiss too had been concerned about safety, but given that she'd had a hand in the bunkbed's construction (a term she used loosely), she was sure they were fine. Juvenile, perhaps, but fine. Perhaps she could spin it as a way in which she'd established rapport with her team. Winter understood the value of teamwork, after all.

Behind them, there was a loud clang, followed by a familiar voice cursing. The Atlesian Knights turned around, raising their weapons. "Halt!" Winter called.

Weiss facepalmed.

One of the Atlesian Knights was struggling to get up from where it had fallen, its robotic limbs not capable of properly righting itself. Standing over it was Artorias, swaying a little, a flask in hand. "Sorry!" he called. "It tripped, wasn't me – really, it wasn't." He pocketed the flask. "So… are these things sentient?" He walked up to another robot, stopping only when its mask flashed a warning sign.

"I don't have time for this," Winter muttered.

"Gonna take that as a yes," Artorias said. He seemed to lose his balance and stumble closer, and the robot opened fire. A quick punch put the robot out of commission. "Sorry, Ice Queen!" he called again. "Self-defense!"

"You _do_ know who you're talking to, don't you?" Weiss called.

"Winter Schnee, right?" Artorias leaned in, his eyes narrowing. "Yup, Winter Schnee."

"You realise you just destroyed Atlas Military property," Winter said.

"Property?" Artorias was taken aback, holding a hand to his heart mockingly. "Thank the gods, they're not sentient. A real weight off my chest, that is. Unless – they're not _slaves,_ are they?"

"Ignore him, Weiss," Winter said, turning away. "Let's go."

He muttered something under his breath. "I've always wanted to free slaves," he said, loudly. "One of those big noble goals, you know? Stop all Grimm, end world hunger, put an end to slavery. I can cross something off my bucket list!"

"Artorias, leave," Winter said, and seemingly despite herself, she turned back to watch him, her eyes narrowing.

"Artorias, leave," Artorias mimicked. "Artorias, sit. Artorias, heel. Artorias, fetch. Did you have your joke butler write that one for you?" He stumbled towards the next pair of knights.

"Walk away," Winter said, "or I will _make_ you walk away."

They each fired at him – another punch took one out, then he smacked the gun from the other's hands and lifted it by the head. "Is anybody in there?" he asked loudly, shaking it. "You're free now!"

Weiss would have asked herself once more what the hell he was up to, but Winter had already taken off, her speed enhanced by a glyph, sabre drawn. Artorias tossed the robot away. There was a fierce glint in his eye as he stepped forwards into Winter's charge, forcing her to halt her momentum early – which she did, a feat Weiss knew to be quite difficult without the aid of more glyphs.

Artorias dived under a slash from Winter, coming to his feet behind her with more grace than Weiss expected from a drunk and drew his sword. He struck at Winter's unprotected back, which she avoided by pirouetting into a backwards handspring. She recovered from the complex acrobatics faster than Weiss could have ever imagined, and she pressed the attack, forcing Artorias backwards across the courtyard.

"What's going on?" Ruby came up next to her. "Is that Artorias?"

A vicious grin crossed Weiss' features. "She's going to crush him."

"I hope not."

"What?"

"I mean, it's not that I _don't_ like your sister," Ruby said. "But she was _kinda_ rude. And she hit you!"

"You don't even know her! And she was very polite."

"For Atlas, maybe," Ruby grumbled. "Artorias is rude on purpose. There's a difference."

Weiss huffed and turned back to the fight.

Artorias was still on the defensive, though Winter wasn't managing to break through his guard. A swift kick changed that, but Artorias let the kick carry him backwards and away, rolling as he landed to come up to his feet before Winter caught up to him. Winter sidestepped a wild upwards swing, then it was her turn to go on the defensive, slanting away the powerful reckless strikes that Artorias rained down from above. She managed to weave through his attacks, stepping too close for them to have any real strength – but his gauntleted left fist caught her in the side. It didn't stop her from bringing her sabre slicing down on his right shoulder. He leaned into the blow, making his cobalt aura splutter and spark angrily, but it successfully pushed Winter away and gave him room to renew his assault.

The elder Schnee flitted just out of his range, taunting him with how close she let his strikes come to her. Artorias snarled and swiped, channeling his aura through his blade. A wave of energy knocked Winter away, and he leapt skywards after her, almost hanging mid-air, blade held above her parallel to the ground like some kind of guillotine.

Then he dropped.

Winter dashed away, and the force of his blow carved a gash into the ground. But he barely had time to register it, for Winter was charging at him again, sabre held before her like a fencing rapier. Artorias batted it aside with his gauntlet, but Winter kept the momentum going, spinning into him and bringing the back of her left hand _cracking_ across his cheek like a whip.

Even Weiss winced. Aura or not, that must have hurt.

Artorias stumbled away, his cheek already going red. Winter pressed the advantage, scoring two more strikes across his chest before he recovered, knocking her sabre away with his heavier blade. He danced away, narrowly dodging her follow-up strike. A hand reached for a pouch at his belt, and he brought forth a fistful of dust crystals.

"Look out!" Weiss called, but he didn't attack Winter with them. He ducked low under a blow, then punched the ground itself.

She wasn't entirely sure what it was he was trying to do, but Artorias flew high into the air, howling with laughter. Then he came crashing back down, spinning into the blow for more power. Winter drew her parrying dagger and held both her weapons in an 'X' before her to block the strike.

The impact brought her to her knees and left cracks in the pavement below her, but it worked.

Artorias rolled to his feet not a moment after he landed. Winter dusted herself off, smirking, but her expression quickly turned serious as a broad figure garbed in white and blue pushed its way through the crowd.

"What've you got for me, Winter?" Artorias taunted. But he too went quiet when the figure laid its hand on his shoulder.

"General Ironwood, sir!" Winter saluted, sheathing her weapons.

Artorias cleared his throat. "Uh… hi?"

"What do you have to say for yourself, Mr Nym?" he asked, his voice nary a whisper – yet the words carried over the silent onlookers.

"…she attacked first?"

"Is that right?" Ironwood looked to Winter.

Technically, Artorias had attacked the robots – but then, they'd attacked _him_. Sure, they'd given him fair warning, but he _was_ drunk.

Wasn't he?

He didn't seem to be anymore.

"Both of you, with me," Ironwood directed. "The rest of you, there'll be time enough for fighting and spectacle when the tournament begins. Disperse."

It was as though a spell had been lifted. Slowly, the crowd began to chatter amongst themselves, and sound returned to the courtyard.

"Well, he wasn't crushed," Ruby said.

"Winter _definitely_ won," Weiss said.

"But he wasn't crushed."

* * *

 **Hindsight is 20/20, and the Mercury/Patches/Yarrow section probably should have been part of the last chapter. Oh well.**

 **But hey, I had a lot of fun with Patches this chapter. Made a joke about squatting, for one. A bad joke, but a joke nonetheless. When he first showed up in Izalith, I intended for him to be a one-off joke. But then the Ringed City came out, and a few plans changed to match.**

 **Vengarl's given a choice. June and Ozpin continue to be vague together. Sulyvahn arrives. Winter has come.**

 **There were a _lot_ of different ways that scene almost went. In the original-original draft, she arrived at the same time as in canon, and duelled Qrow (but was interrupted by Artorias rather than Ironwood). Then, when I moved her arrival forwards, I almost had Artorias hurling some far more biting insults, but I felt that was in bad taste, even for him. So I changed it again, cut the fight, and he would instead join the conversation when Winter asks 'Are you making new friends?' But that didn't feel right either, so I went back to the fight, toned down the insults a bit... and here we are. At least she pimp-slapped him. He kinda deserved it.**

 **Next week should have some maneuvering from Sulyvahn, reconciliation between Artorias and Winter, and hopefully a smattering of Penny being awesome.**

 **Next chapter - August 4th.**


	22. Chapter 21: Aegis

**It's not even late and I can barely keep my eyes open. I'm going to bed.**

* * *

 _You'd be surprised what's become of the outside world._

 _Take the King of Mantle. He died in the little girl's arms._

 _That's all I remember, the day my vigil began. Looking out as though through bars of a cage, and seeing a mighty Nameless King, his head cradled in the lap of a frightened young girl._

 _History passed us by. There's a war now, you know? My only chance. Yours too. And even then… it's rather slim, isn't it? But even if we fail, we can rule the ashes of this little prison. Isn't that nice?_

 _These two came recently. I suppose that must mean_ he _still has enemies out there. But nevermind that – the sane one? He's taken to the role of warden quite nicely. Whatever you do, don't enter the crypt. We don't have to kill his charge, and he doesn't like it._

 _He's the one who reminded me that there was a life beyond this. That I used to be somebody, even if… well. I owe him something, I think. So do you. You and me, we're in this together._

 _His death for our freedom. Kill the Warden._

/-/

"So, how've you been?"

Artorias' query went ignored. Winter kept pacing back and forth across Ozpin's office, her mouth set in a thin line.

"Bad day, huh?" In the corner of his eye, Artorias saw Ironwood shake his head, just slightly.

The elevator doors opened, and in stepped Ozpin and Glynda. "Specialist Schnee," Ozpin said. "We're glad to have you with us at last."

Winter nodded shortly, keeping her silence.

"From what I hear, you were drunk in public _again_ , Mr Nym," Professor Goodwitch said. "We won't have to extend our detentions any further, will we?"

"Ah, about that." Artorias slipped his flask from his pocket. "See? It's full. I was just messing around."

"I'll forward the details to your scroll."

He sighed. "Yes ma'am." A smirk flitted across Winter's face before she smothered it.

Ironwood pinched the bridge of his nose. Artorias could just about imagine how much of a headache he'd caused the general. "Our original intention was for the two of you to work together again," he said. "But in light of… well, given your _recent_ interaction, I'm beginning to think that might be a bad idea."

"Beginning?" Artorias asked.

Ironwood didn't dignify that with a response.

"Regardless," Ozpin said, filling the silence, "I believe that you can work through your differences. Am I correct?"

"Fine by me," Artorias shrugged.

"We'll talk it through," Winter corrected.

Ozpin frowned. "See that you do. James?"

James stepped towards Ozpin's desk and placed his scroll down. A screen was projected onto the air, displaying numerous files. He brought one up. "The man who sacked Izalith calls himself the Fume Knight," he informed Winter. A hologram showing his armour came up – likely recreated from what Lautrec had told him. Some minor details weren't quite right – his gauntlet, for example, was on the wrong hand – but for the most part it was accurate.

"Mr Nym encountered him on a mission a recent mission. We believe he could be a threat to the festival's security." Winter stepped forwards, examining the file closely. Artorias could only see one other piece of information aside from the armour: a list. Of other villages he'd destroyed? Yes, it must be: Izalith at the top, Carim at the bottom.

"I thought you had bigger fish to fry," Artorias said, looking to Ozpin curiously.

"And _we_ will handle the bigger fish," Ozpin said. "We're leaving the Fume Knight to the two of you."

"I'm not sure if I'm flattered or insulted," Artorias muttered.

"Use your brain – I'm sure you have one. You'll work it out," Winter said.

"Ouch. I didn't hit a nerve back there, did I?"

She turned away from the hologram to address the older Hunters. "Do you have any leads for me?"

"He's hunting Anastacia Sil's killer," Ironwood said. "A man named Lautrec. He's being held on the flagship. I've been questioning him as to why the Fume Knight wants him, and how the Fume Knight finds him, but he's either ignorant or tight-lipped on the subject."

"Is there anything else?"

"We'll tell you if we learn anything," Ozpin said.

Winter frowned. "I'd suggest using the killer as bait. If we take him far outside of Vale-"

"That isn't an option," Ironwood said. "Not yet at least."

"Classified?" Artorias asked, raising an eyebrow.

"For want of a better word, yes," Ozpin agreed. "Classified."

He nodded in acceptance, as did Winter. General Ironwood swiped his scroll from the desk. "I'll forward what little we have to your scrolls. Do you have any questions?"

Artorias raised his hand. "Let's say I'm busy with this when I'm supposed to have detention-"

"We'll reschedule, Mr Nym," Goodwitch said.

"I was thinking-"

"I'm sure I can find more paperwork, if you'd prefer?"

Artorias paused mid-sentence. "Nope. No questions," he said.

"I thought as much," Goodwitch said.

"Both of you, good luck," Ozpin said.

 _I don't need luck._

Artorias and Winter both entered the elevator. Artorias hit the button for the ground floor.

There were a few moments of blissful silence.

"What the hell were you doing?"

"Having a good time? Weren't you?"

"When I was seeing my sister, yes – and I'd rather have kept doing that."

"I didn't stop you," Artorias shrugged. "You attacked first."

"You attacked my soldiers."

"Do they _really_ count as soldiers? Besides – self-defence."

"You provoked them."

"I also provoked you. You're not a robot – what's your excuse?"

"I was defending my-"

"Your property?"

She paused. "Atlas' property."

"You wanted a fight," Artorias asserted. "I have a lot of ears, you know. I heard you. You told Weiss to ignore me. If you didn't want to fight, you'd have followed that advice."

"You wouldn't shut up!"

"You could have ignored me," he repeated. "But instead, we fought, and you had a good time. Don't lie. You enjoyed it."

She didn't respond for a while. At last, she said, "I admit, it was a little therapeutic."

Artorias smirked. "Bad day?"

"Classified," she said.

"Ouch. Chilly," he quipped. The elevator opened up at the bottom of the tower.

"I'm going to find my sister," Winter told him. "We'll meet this evening to formulate a plan."

"Winter, I-"

"I'll see you this evening, Artorias."

"I need to talk to you. About something serious."

"For once."

"Oh, ha, very funny." He rolled his eyes.

Winter didn't seem impressed. "Can it wait?"

He sighed. "I guess it can wait a little longer," he said. "We're cool, right?"

"I suppose you're not any less sufferable than before," she said.

"…does that mean cool?"

She grimaced. "We're 'cool'," she said, seemingly in physical pain at saying the word. Artorias grinned at her discomfort. "Five o'clock – my office. Don't be late."

"You get an office? We just have the-"

"Shut up, Artorias," she said – then turned on her heel and left.

 _Coulda gone worse._

/-/

"So, with repeated readings, you are able to recall the information with greater ease?"

"Mhm." Gilderoy turned the page of the textbook. Words were beginning to blur together a little. He'd been the first to come to the library in the early morning – other students had come and gone, and he'd just kept studying.

"And you don't find that boring?"

"Oh, it's _very_ boring," he said dryly. "But it's a necessity. Ciaran seems to like it – I swear, she's like a machine when she gets to work." And Artorias only _really_ studied when they made him, but still passed anyway – albeit with less than stellar results, but a pass was a pass.

Penny shifted in her seat. "Ha ha, yes, like a machine. A witty observation."

Gilderoy glanced up at her. "You alright?"

"Do I seem not alright?" she responded, adopting an innocent smile.

He shrugged, pushing the textbook away. "Never mind. Are you ready for your exams?"

"They are unseen questions, are they not?"

"Well, yes," Gilderoy said slowly. "Mine are too. That's why I'm preparing for multiple eventualities."

"I was led to believe they would all be within the bounds of the course material."

"Do you really think Professor Port covered _all_ the course material?"

"I don't know," Penny said. "The syllabus was not made available to me."

Gilderoy crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. "At your last lecture, what did he say to the class first?"

"Hmm…" she frowned, and her eyes glazed over a little. "Nothing I'd consider off-topic," she said.

Gilderoy's brow furrowed. "Could you repeat his words for me?"

"Of course. He said, 'Only tangle with more than eight women at once if you're below the age of thirty and over seven feet tall.' Why do you ask?"

Gilderoy blinked. He opened his mouth, looking for an answer, and found none.

"Are you alright?"

"How is that not off-topic?"

"He told us once that 'woman' and 'ursa' were synonymous," she said. "Do you think he meant literal women?"

Gilderoy's brow furrowed as he thought it through. Honestly, knowing Port, it could be either.

Penny frowned, and she reached for her scroll. Her eyes lit up, and a broad smile spread across her face.

"Good news?"

"Oh – I believe this is considered to be classified, but yes, it _is_ good news," she said, jumping to her feet. "I enjoyed studying with you, Gilderoy – good luck with your exams!"

"But you didn't even… you just sat and talked – nevermind," he muttered, watching her leave.

He let out a long sigh and stood up, stretching his arms. A cursory glance at his scroll told him it was nearly noon – but it already felt like he'd had a long day. One look back down at the textbook told him it was high time for a break.

/-/

"I trust you weren't followed?"

"I took precautions," Cinder said, sweeping past Sulyvahn into his chambers. An uncomfortable chill ran through her as she brushed past.

"I'm glad," said Sulyvahn. "I wouldn't want to put your mission at risk." He sat in a small wicker chair. "Wine?" he asked, gesturing to two wine glasses placed on a table before him, alongside a bottle of red.

"I'm not much one for communion," Cinder quipped, sitting across from him.

"Nor for pleasantries, I see. Allow me to educate you on the finer things." He poured them each a glass, but neither drank just yet. "Your girl – the green-haired one. Emerald, wasn't it? You're not having me followed, are you?"

"Not at all," Cinder lied. "She is a student here, you know. We all are."

"Posing perhaps, but I see your point." He raised his glass. "To our respective assignments."

Cinder obliged. Crystal clinked against crystal – and Cinder was sure to drink before Sulyvahn. It was a display of confidence: by doing so, she showed she knew he wouldn't dare poison her drink. She wouldn't put it past him, of course – if it suited his goals. Not that she knew exactly what his goals were, but she knew he needed her for the time being. He'd been quite clear on the matter.

What he'd been _assigned_ to, of course, was the recovery of the relic at Atlas. Cinder had been assigned to the Fall Maiden – and later Beacon tower too, when it was clear the Maiden had found refuge under Ozpin's roof – but strangely not Beacon's relic. The relic itself was too dangerous, Salem had told her. Another ally would retrieve it after Ozpin's demise.

Regardless, Sulyvahn wasn't _in_ Atlas anymore, and that was some cause for concern. Had the relic been moved? Had his assignment changed? Was he following his own agenda? She couldn't say for sure, but the latter seemed most likely. He was acting awfully suspicious, after all.

"Have you heard from any of our mutual acquaintances?" Sulyvahn asked.

"Careful," Cinder teased. "For a second I thought you'd call them friends."

"People like us can little afford friends," he said. "But I would like for us to be friends."

"Would you? I may not be an authority on the subject, but I don't believe friends threaten each other's lives."

"Hmm? Oh. Don't worry – not yours. Emerald and Mercury first – and _then_ you, if you didn't fall in line," he said casually. "That won't be necessary, will it?"

"That depends what you want from me," Cinder said. Normally, this would be the point in negotiations where she'd lay it on thick – settle into their personal space, flash a little leg, subtly threaten to melt their faces off – but she knew Sulyvahn wouldn't be swayed by anything of the sort, and so she abstained, for now.

Threats were still on the table, of course.

"Raime's been busy," Sulyvahn said, changing the topic. "The fool can't stay quiet for two seconds. So many towns, so many lives…" he shook his head. "The scorpion is half-mad, but at least he doesn't draw attention to himself. I don't know why she keeps Raime around."

"She doesn't. She sends him halfway around the world to ruin somebody else's day," Cinder quipped.

"Touché. But she's done the same to the rest of us." With his left hand, he waved dismissively, while with his right he raised his glass to his lips.

"He's been with her the longest," Cinder said. "She's not one to punish loyalty."

"She's more than willing to punish incompetency."

Sulyvahn spoke the truth. Cinder hid a smirk at the thought of Raime as he was now, hiding in Vale, little more than a frail old man. Better not to tell Sulyvahn that Raime was in _her_ pocket, for the time being.

"You've done something to the CCT here, have you not?" he asked.

Cinder raised an eyebrow.

"Please – I have a specialist as an informant. I heard about your little break-in. What did you do?"

Vordt – of course. Cinder hadn't been quite sure if the specialist simply owed Sulyvahn favours or if he was truly devoted to the Pontiff's cause, but now she was inclined to think the latter.

"What would you do with that information?"

Sulyvahn sighed. "Obstinate as ever. I swear on Saint Aldrich's grave, I'm not going to sabotage your plans."

"Unless I cross you."

"Unless you cross me, yes. Come now. What would I gain from it anyway?"

Cinder rolled her eyes. "Full access to all documents saved on the system," she said. "I can also rig the tournament matchups, and control what the CCT broadcasts."

"That's quite a virus," Sulyvahn said. He seemed impressed. "Do you have access to Ozpin's own files?"

"Of worth? No," Ozpin wasn't so foolish as to put anything of value in a digital file – and besides, she already knew he was harbouring the Maiden somewhere. What she _did_ find useful were Beacon's files – especially the student records, all of which would help her tailor the tournament to suit her needs, and to find Ozpin's likely candidates for the Maiden. "But this is all undetectable. Well – relatively."

"Nothing's perfect," Sulyvahn agreed. "One last question – when do you intend for Beacon to fall?"

"Not interested in the nitty-gritty details? My, you were so inquisitive just a few moments ago."

"It is of little consequence. I simply need to know how much time I have available to me."

Cinder leaned forwards, peering closely at him. His pale purple eyes glinted back at her. "What's your plan?"

"I don't know yet," he said, spreading his arms helplessly. "I have a goal. I can't form a plan to reach that goal without more information. Hence…" he motioned towards her. "Talk."

She held his gaze for a few more seconds before speaking. "The finals. Possibly the first day, but more likely the second." She'd have to gauge the audience when the time came.

"Thank you," Sulyvahn said, finishing his glass of wine. He gestured to the bottle. "Unless you wish to continue enjoying my pleasant company, I believe we're done for now. You're posing as a student, no? Do try to enjoy your exams tomorrow."

Cinder suppressed a sneer. Paltry, _boring_ tests, but a necessity to blend in. "Give your good friend Aldrich my regards," she said curtly, heading for the door.

"I will."

Cinder paused. "It's idiotic," she said, turning back to him, her brow furrowed. "You have met an actual god – a living, breathing deity – and you still choose to worship the Deep. Why?"

He too stood, and his gaze sent another chill down Cinder's spine, despite herself. "I believe in the coming of the Deep," he said. "I believe in the second coming of the Saint. I worship neither, nor will I worship Salem. Drawing strength from your faith in another is a pointless endeavour. Draw strength from others' faith in you, however… well. Look at all Salem is achieving. That's proof enough for me."

"And who has faith in you?"

"Nobody of importance – and that's what matters. By taking on their burdens you weaken them, but _you_ grow stronger for the challenge. My followers are unimportant _because_ they are my followers. It is a vicious cycle, like the King Taijitu swallowing its other head. Take my advice: use their dependency, feed upon it, until you have exhausted them. Then leave them."

Leave Emerald and Mercury? Cinder would be quick to admit they meant little to her – but she certainly bore them no ill will. They were loyal, after all, in their own way, and when they weren't bickering they were pleasant enough company.

Raime was another matter entirely. Dependent? Surely. How else would he find his way onto the Atlesian warship? His victory would be hers, and she would make sure Salem knew it when they returned to her. "Honest wisdom from a dishonest preacher," she said. "I'd be remiss to ignore it."

Sulyvahn smiled. Cinder suppressed a shiver. "Good." He raised his empty glass towards her in a mocking toast. "To meetings between friends," he said, then turned away, holding up a hand to dismiss her.

/-/

"You're late."

"Fifteen seconds," Artorias protested, rolling his eyes. "I'm fifteen seconds late. Don't be so petty."

"You're worth being petty towards," Winter said. "Come in."

Artorias obliged, stepping into her office: a small room on the corner of the north wing. One little window looked out towards the Emerald forest in the distance. A door led to what Artorias presumed to be her quarters proper.

Winter walked to the desk and sat behind it, gesturing for Artorias to sit opposite her. He had the uncomfortable feeling of being called to the teacher's office for punishment. He supposed that was what she was going for.

"Have you had a chance to read over the files General Ironwood sent us?" she asked.

"Chance? Yes. Have I?"

"Have you?" Winter prompted.

"I-"

"Rhetorical question, of course you haven't," she dismissed, bringing up her scroll. "A summary of Lautrec's interrogations, for one – and a transcript, though a lot of that is redacted-"

"Ah, 'classified', the classic excuse," Artorias drawled. "Look – can it wait for a second?"

"Depends. How do you want to spend that second?"

"On a serious discussion. I know, shocker."

Winter rearranged the pens on her desk. "Go on."

"First of all, I'm sorry. About that call?"

"It's not a proper apology unless you do it in person, is it?"

"Smartass," Artorias muttered. "I don't care if I apologised then. I'm apologising again now."

Winter huffed. "Continue."

He sighed. "What does my file say about my father?"

"Nothing," she said. "Not even a name. Why?"

"He was an ass," Artorias spat. "Acted like he loved me – and maybe he did – but he treated Mum like shit, when I wasn't there to see it. Not physical abuse – not often – but the worst kind of emotional abuse. He was a drug addict, you see. He'd write some of his own prescriptions so he could get a quick fix – and that's just scratching the surface. And who was left to clean up after his oh-so-numerous mistakes? Mum. She never got a damn 'thank you' for it either. He'd just yell at her over petty shit. He wasn't docile even when he was drugged up." He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Not that she let me see that side of him. Not for a long time. He left when I was four, to a town on the north coast. We stayed in contact for a bit – letters and the like – but he disappeared off the face of Remnant after another year or so."

Winter was silent, watching him curiously. There was something oddly comforting about her cold gaze.

"Mum only told me what he was really like – gods, must have been around the time I was accepted into Flare. It's strange to think that they loved each other once. Mum only stayed with him as long she did for my sake." He slipped the copper signet ring from his finger. "This used to be her wedding ring. Well – the closest thing she had to one. They were never legally married – didn't believe in that sort of thing. Anyway, Mum thought it'd be some sort of comfort to me. I guess it was, for a bit. I mean, asshole or not, he was still my dad, right?" He laughed half-heartedly. "Then we found him in Vacuo."

"Arthur Quill," Winter murmured.

"Yup," Artorias said, popping the 'p'. "I don't know what changed. He used to be a doctor – and he was good too, when he was sober. I guess you can do good deeds and still be a terrible person. Maybe he finally snapped. Maybe the Fang had dirt on him. I don't know, and I didn't really care. I just knew that because he wasn't around, Mum had to work multiple jobs with stupid hours just to put food on the table. I knew that she'd never felt safe around him. I knew that I was his legacy, and if anyone could make him hurt, it was me." Artorias shrugged. "I blamed a hell of a lot on Arthur Quill. Most of it was probably justified. And maybe vengeance wasn't the right course, but fuck it, it's done now." He shrugged again, settling deeper into his chair. "I just thought you should know."

It took a moment for Winter to respond. "I didn't know."

"That was by design," Artorias snorted. "My design, specifically. You weren't supposed to know. _Nobody_ was."

"Of course." She let out a long sigh. "If you want to talk about it-"

"That's what I just did. Talked about it. You were there, and I thought you should know. Can we move on?"

"We can," she said, hurrying to take the opening. She brought up her scroll. "Regarding the Fume Knight, we have three options. First, we could wait for him to make his move and react to it. For obvious reasons, this is not ideal. We could also lure him out, or we could hunt him down."

"I thought General Ironwood said we couldn't bait him."

"Not with Lautrec," she said. "But we could potentially find someone to act as a body double. It'd be difficult to make the disguise believable, of course. We don't know _how_ the Fume Knight's been tracking him. Unless you saw something at Carim?"

"No. Nothing of the sort. Although… have you seen Lautrec yourself?"

"No."

"Are you aware of – it's hard to explain – he glows beneath his skin, like a second aura. Are you..." he trailed off, gears in his mind whirring. _Like a second aura._

 _And they found the souls of Lords within the flame._

Was that what Ozpin had been hinting at? Was the tale true? Had Lautrec literally found another soul, a _special_ soul? Surely not. But... what if he had?

"Artorias?"

He shook himself from his thoughts - he'd speak with Ozpin about it when the opportunity arose. "A hunch. I'll look into it in my own time. Were you aware of Lautrec's condition?"

She skimmed over the transcript, her eyes flicking back and forth. "I was not."

"It could be a brand, of sorts," Artorias suggested. He still couldn't rule anything out. "Nobody from Izalith mentioned it, remember? The Fume Knight may have branded him since – it could be a semblance or something. Maybe that's how he knew where Lautrec was."

"Possible – but hard to confirm. Either way, I agree that luring out the Knight is nigh impossible without further information, which brings us to the third plan." She steepled her fingers, resting her elbows on the desk. "We'll hunt him down. Atlas intelligence is aware of a good source of information for matters relating to Vale-"

"I'm going to stop you right there," Artorias said. "It's Junior, isn't it?"

"It's Hei Xiong, yes."

"First of all, he'd _really_ hate to see me again."

"Oh?"

"Long story," Artorias dismissed. "Secondly, what the damn hell would Junior know about a warrior who _literally_ fights alongside Grimm?"

"The Fume Knight is waiting for an opportunity," Winter explained. "If he's to capitalise on that opportunity, he'd need to be close at hand. There's a good chance he's hiding within the walls."

"I'm going to say this again, and slower: what would Junior know?"

"I don't know," Winter said, mimicking his cadence. He rolled his eyes at her mockery. "You grew up here. You tell me: who would be most likely to know about any strange characters entering or leaving Vale?"

"The immigration office?"

Winter scoffed. "Please. A half-intelligent Beowolf could fool Vale's immigration office. Mr Xiong is still the most reliable source of information for underworld matters in Vale, no?"

"As far as I know, yes," Artorias grumbled. "Fine. When are we going?"

"We'll meet there. Two hours. Dress casually – I don't want either of us to be recognised on the way there." Pointless, as far as he was concerned, but sure - why not? She stood, gesturing to the door. "I'll see you then."

"What if I have plans?"

"You don't."

"But what if I did?" Winter stood behind him and tilted his chair, spilling him onto the floor. "Rude," Artorias said, his voice muffled somewhat by the carpet.

"Don't be late again."

Artorias pulled himself to his feet and dusted himself off. "Fifteen seconds!" he repeated.

/-/

"My daughter seems quite fond of your school, Headmaster Ozpin," Doctor Polendina said. "I'm glad for the invitation. I'm all for her becoming more independent, but it was good to see her again."

"You're here for a job, Doctor," Ironwood reminded him. "I don't want to keep you from Penny, but I hope you understand that she's not why you're here."

"Of course, General," Doctor Polendina said, bowing his head slightly in submission. "I understand completely."

Their boots echoed on the metal floor of the airship as they walked down the corridor.

"I'm glad she's fitting in," Ozpin said shortly. "We look to make Beacon a home for students from all walks of life."

Not that Ozpin knew exactly what 'walk of life' Penny was from, Ironwood thought, and for the time being it was best to keep it that way. Penny wasn't perfect. She stuck out like a sore thumb, and not just because of the bright hair. Unless Doctor Polendina could create a more nuanced model – a perfect candidate to become a Maiden – it was better to keep Ozpin in the dark.

But Doctor Polendina was understandably loathe to continue that line of research. Penny lacked social understanding, sure – but she was still a person, and both the Doctor and the General saw it as immoral to create a new prototype. What would that do to the girl's psyche, if she felt she could be simply mass produced, if she felt she was obsolete? And so, the project had been shut down. Penny would learn, given enough time – and then she could become the Maiden she was meant to be.

They halted in front of the door to Lautrec's cell. "In here?" Doctor Polendina asked.

"Indeed." Ironwood punched a code into the pad by the door, and the cell opened. Lautrec looked out at them, bags under his eyes.

"I see," Doctor Polendina said.

"Just like that?" Ozpin asked.

"Close the door. I've seen enough."

"Nice to meet you-" Lautrec's sarcastic greeting was muffled by the door closing again.

"My semblance allows me to see a person's soul," Doctor Polendina explained. Ironwood always found Doctor Polendina's demonstrations with his semblance to be unsettling, to say the least. "It's how I developed an interest in the study of aura – being the manifestation of a soul, you see."

"I'm well aware," Ozpin said.

"Oh, of course – my apologies." Again, Doctor Polendina bowed his head. "Yours is quite brilliant, Headmaster, I must say. All those colours embedded in the emerald…"

"Doctor?" Ironwood prompted.

Doctor Polendina cleared his throat. "Right. Needless to say – every soul is different. Your suspicions were well-founded – the prisoner has two, and one is certainly not his own."

"How can you tell?"

"It's hard to explain. Most souls pulse, as if with a heartbeat. It's nothing noteworthy if they _don't_ , but one is clearly having its pulse suppressed by the other. It's like it's trapped. Honestly, if it weren't such a vivid shade of purple, I doubt I'd have even seen it."

Ozpin hummed in thought. "Could it be separated, say, with the machine you provided us?" The aura transfer device – of course!

"Moved? Yes. But it couldn't separate them. You have to understand, Headmaster – that device was not made for precision. All you'd do is move both souls from one body to another – in theory. Have you tested it, Headmaster?"

"Classified," Ironwood cut in.

"Of course." Doctor Polendina knew only what he needed to know regarding the Maidens. Getting Ozpin to approve that had been a nightmare, but they'd been out of options. "Not to worry. I presume that's why I'm here, no? To separate those souls? I can't make any promises on time, but I believe I can find a solution sooner or later."

/-/

"Wasn't late," Artorias said, kicking off from the wall. He'd forgone the usual jerkin and pauldron in favour of a white shirt and a brown jacket. His cloak was wrapped tighter about his neck than usual, like a scarf. His sword was sheathed on his back, and he still wore his gauntlet, though he stuffed his hand into the pocket of his jacket to somewhat obscure it from view.

"I shouldn't need to congratulate you for meeting expectations," Winter said. She'd kept a similar style to her specialist uniform, but had chosen clothes a little less formal, with a shorter, thicker coat and smaller shoes and a colour pallet of dark blues and greys that didn't draw attention to itself the way a stark white uniform did. She'd also tucked the signature Schnee hair into a beret, though a few strands had escaped. "You're familiar with Hei Xiong, no?"

"More-or-less."

"You take the lead, then. Don't mess up."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," he drawled, crossing the street to the club.

Unlike when he'd come with Yang, the bouncers didn't scramble away, though they did seem to recognise him, speaking fervently into little microphones on their blazers as soon as they'd passed by.

It was a Sunday night, and there weren't a great many customers, though there were still enough for it to feel busy. Winter's eyes were flitting about the room, scanning for potential threats.

Artorias made his way to the bar and sat, waving the bartender away when he asked what he wanted. Junior would be down soon enough, he was sure – or maybe the twin girls who backed up him. Besides, he wasn't going to drink anything served here. Not this time. He wouldn't put it past them to mess with his drink in some way.

"Do you socialise with my sister's team often?" Winter asked.

"Doing some snooping, are you?"

"My sister wouldn't lie to me, but I'm more than aware that my approval means a lot to her. She'd leave things out if it benefited her. And I'd certainly prefer to ask you about it over her team leader."

"Flattery will get you everywhere," Artorias chuckled. "Yeah. I – how did you put it? I 'socialise' with them sometimes. Wei-"

"No names," she hissed, leaning in close. "Not here."

"…right. Your sister gets along well with her team, from what I see. She and her leader are particularly close – doesn't make any sense, sure, but hey, it shouldn't make sense with us either."

"What are you trying to say?"

"That you're a wonderful human being and that I'm grateful you've deigned to spend time with me," Artorias said, not skipping a beat.

"Hmm. Go on."

"What else do you want me to say? Their team is in a good place. Oh, wait – you'll love this. Your sister has taken an 'interest' in a guy."

The edge of the bar cracked where Winter gripped it.

"They've really seemed to hit it off, actually."

"I'm… happy for her. Truly," Winter growled.

Artorias smirked. "I can tell." He took his flask from his pocket and offered it to Winter.

"This isn't a bring-your-own." Junior said, emerging from an employee-only section behind the bar. "I thought it was you, Wolf." His gaze passed from Artorias to Winter. "Who's _this_ huntress?"

Well, at least he didn't recognise her as an Atlesian Specialist. "You can call me 'sir'," Winter said calmly, taking Artorias' flask and sipping a little before passing it back.

Junior seemed to tense up, but then he let out a long sigh and addressed Artorias again. "You really do keep the worst company."

"I'd disagree," Artorias said, pocketing his flask. "We're here for more information. I'll pay for it, and if you don't fuck with me, you might even get to keep the lien."

"Generous," Junior grunted, crossing his arms. "If this is about Yarrow again, I swear-"

"Oh? Is there something you left out?"

Junior cursed under his breath. "Recent development. Pay up and I'll talk." Artorias slipped some lien across the bar. "A few days ago, I sent some guys over to see if he left anything behind. None of them came back."

"Been a long time since he disappeared. What prompted you?"

"Someone was in here looking for him specifically. He didn't give me a name, and I didn't see his face." Junior shrugged. "Thought it might be worth checking it out."

Artorias fished his scroll from his pocket and brought up the file on the Fume Knight – specifically the reconstruction of his armour. "He didn't look anything like this, did he?"

Junior leaned in closer to look at the scroll. "No," he said. "Not at all. And before you ask – I've not seen anyone like that in my life. Now, if that'll be all-"

"It won't be," Winter interjected. "Have you heard of any shady folk entering Vale since Tuesday?"

"You'd have to narrow that down. There's always an influx for the Vytal Festival, and there are plenty I don't even hear about."

"A male, not much taller than me, probably lugging a big fucking sword behind him," Artorias described. "Had a pretty nice voice, all things considered."

"Haven't heard about any big fucking swords," Junior said. "And haven't heard any particularly impressive voices either."

Artorias nodded. "How about disappearances? Anyone of note gone missing over the past week or so?"

Junior rubbed his fingers together in the universal gesture for money. Artorias obliged. "Obviously there's my guys at Yarrow's, but the White Fang have gone underground since the Breach as well. I guess you knew that, but there's something else – nobody's seen Neopolitan since the Breach either. Now, I know Roman was working with the Fang, but that's a shaky alliance at best. Maybe Neo's hiding with them. Probably not, though. I'd bet my spare kidney she's doing her own thing. Whatever that thing is, she's keeping quiet about it. Quieter than usual, I mean. With a girl like that, no news is never good news."

Well, it wasn't what he was looking for – he'd been hoping to hear that some poor informant had been displaced to make room for the Fume Knight's hideout. But it was still something.

"How many old White Fang hideouts do you know of?" Winter asked.

Junior looked to Artorias, raising an eyebrow. Artorias rolled his eyes, shooting a dirty glance at Winter as he paid Junior. _Seriously? You're a Schnee! You're rich!_

"I'm no insider," Junior said, grabbing a napkin and starting to scribble down addresses, "but I know a few. Don't expect anything. If _I_ know them, they're not that secure. Besides – like I said, the Fang are laying low."

"You seem eager to give them up," Artorias observed.

"It may not look like it, but there's some honour amongst thieves, Wolf," Junior said. "But the Fang aren't thieves. They're terrorists. Roman was playing with fire. It sucks just as much for me as it does you if Vale gets overrun by the Grimm. It's bad for business, and also for my health." He passed Winter the napkin. She took a cursory glance at it before folding it up and pocketing it.

Artorias looked to Winter. "We done?"

She nodded. "That'll be all."

"See how productive we can be when we're civil, Junior?" Artorias asked, spreading his arms wide as though to hug the man.

"Order a drink, ask for intel, or get out," Junior growled. "Those are your options."

"We're leaving, we're leaving," Artorias said, backing towards the exit.

"No need to be dramatic," Winter said, grabbing him by his cloak and near-enough hauling him outside.

Once they were well away from the club, and were sure they weren't being followed, they began to talk freely, and about very important matters.

"Weiss' crush," Winter growled. "What's his name?"

Very important matters indeed.

"Neptune Vasilias," Artorias said, throwing the blue-haired boy under the bus. "…we're not going to talk about the info?"

"We didn't get anything of great value," she said, pulling the napkin from her pocket. "We'll check these places over the next few days. I'm busy tonight – I'll see you tomorrow, Artorias," she said, setting off down the street.

"Don't be too hard on him!"

She didn't respond, disappearing around a corner not long afterwards.

/-/

Vengarl pushed himself against the wall. Footsteps echoed through the empty halls – a security guard, nothing more.

 _Wait._

Silence. No – listening closer, very faint breathing, the shuffling of feet on polished stone.

 _Wait._

More footsteps – this time receding.

Vengarl let his breathing return to normal and slipped around the corner. The painting loomed over him – the Painted World, it was called – but that wasn't his goal. Not tonight. He hugged the wall around to the right, dragging his hand along the polished marble until he felt a little jolt to his aura – something nobody would recognise if they weren't looking for it.

He responded, and a panel in the wall slid down. He stepped through, and it closed behind him.

The museum had once been the palace, after all. And there were some things that those curators would never find on their own.

It was pitch black in the hidden passage. No surprise – it had been two decades since Vengarl had been down here. He doubted anybody else would have. He doubted anyone else _could_ – Ozpin, for sure, but he had no reason to.

Vengarl fished his scroll from his pocket and turned the light on, illuminating the narrow passageway, then set off. Dust swirled about his feet with every step until he was almost like a ghost, haunting his long-abandoned abode.

The path split many times, but he continued with purpose, knowing exactly where to go. At length, he found himself in the old war room - a circular chamber with walls lined with emerald. Steps descended into the middle of the room, where there sat a stone table, round, covered in cobwebs and dust.

Oz had his Vault beneath Beacon. Vengarl had this place – though it wasn't a place for scheming and plotting and safekeeping. This was but a memory.

He descended the ancient stairs, dust billowing out at every footfall, and came to the table. He breathed, only lightly, but the dust scattered from its surface as though a great gale had passed through the room, revealing an intricate carving upon the table's surface – a carving of great warriors, some in horned helms, with sword and spear, and some with hoods, commanding dust and the forces of nature – all united against a common foe. The creatures of Grimm.

There was one figure who appeared larger than the others: a woman with a tall, jagged crown.

He crossed the room. Against the wall behind the largest seat was a large wooden chest. He picked it up and set it down on the table, right on top of where the crown was, and opened it.

First there was a shield – metal, rectangular, painted black with a raven embossed on its surface. It had belonged to a member of Mistral's kingsguard. How many times had they clashed? A dozen times at the siege of Heide alone, then again at the battle of the Royal Wood, at Halgot bridge, but strangely not at the siege of the Bastille, where the king of Mistral himself had been captured. Vengarl had never learned what had happened to the kingsguard. He was probably long dead.

But that wasn't why he was here.

He set the shield aside.

Then a long blue coat, medals mounted on its breast. The standard Valean military coat of a commander, this one for the blue legion. It had travelled to all corners of Remnant, fended off swords and Grimm claws alike, all in service of Joseph Arc.

Rightfully, it belonged to Jaune now.

But that wasn't why he was here either.

He set the coat aside.

At last – a sword. Its crossguard was bent at a right angle halfway out from the weapon's centre, so as to be parallel with its edge. The leather wrapping was old and worn, but still sturdy. He ran a finger along its edge, confirming that it had gone dull with age. From a pocket, he produced a whetstone, and began to sharpen Lucatiel's sword.

Idly, he wondered if this was how the girl in the painting felt, alone in a dark place with only a sword and memories of the dead for comfort.

"It's been a while," he said. "I've missed you." He liked to imagine that the quiet _shink_ of the blade on the whetstone was Lucatiel's reply.

"Hmph. That's a sappy way to start," he grumbled. "I'm not good at this. It'd be easier if you could hold up your end of the conversation, you know? You're really letting the team down here."

No response. Typical.

"It's not fair," he said. "I'm an old man. I'm reminded every day that I've grown old and that you haven't. Not like me."

 _Shink._

"I still feel like a kid sometimes," he said. "Lost, I mean. I don't know what I want. I don't know what to _do_ , Lucatiel."

What would she say to that? He didn't know.

Well, he could guess what she'd do, at least. She was fond of the road less travelled, of overcoming her fears, of taking the path of most resistance and triumphing regardless. Perhaps Oz had appealed to that part of her. It had never been clear _how_ he'd convinced her to enter the painting, only why – because he was afraid.

And now he was presented with the same choice. Not that he was at risk of losing his mind – not like her, at least. But what would he really be facing within the painting?

His hand clenched around the whetstone.

" _The greatest rewards are those you earn for yourself."_

She'd said that to him the day his aura had manifested. Others, the new generation of Hunters, had their own mantras to unlock aura. But in many ways, Vengarl saw Lucatiel as the first Hunter, and that was her mantra, and hers alone. She had never, to his knowledge, unlocked another's aura. Such things had to be earned. Or so she believed.

Why then had she taken that conflict from Oz? She had shouldered his burden and journeyed to the Painted World. Why?

"Why couldn't you have walked away?"

No reply. The sound of the whetstone grinding against the steel offered no comfort.

 _Closure._ Bah. What use was closure? It wouldn't bring him joy, nor satisfaction. He wouldn't pretend he'd moved on long ago – no, he was too self-aware for that – but he saw no point in closure.

No. His mind was made up. He would not go to the Painted World. It didn't matter who the girl was to him, and it didn't matter who he was to the girl. But Oz… he mattered.

It was as though a great weight lifted from his shoulders. A sigh of relief escaped him. A decision had been made – it made all the difference.

"Thank you," he said.

 _Shink._

"Jaune's a good kid," he continued. "Joseph's descendant. I think you'd like him. He's got a drive to better himself – not unlike you, I suppose. But gods, he can be a bit dull sometimes."

 _Shink._

"He saw the photo of us three. Thought you were his great-great-grandmother, for a second. You and Joseph, huh? How about it?"

Silence.

"Hmm. I thought not."

 _I don't want to live. I want to exist._

She'd been so afraid… But she was never afraid. He'd never seen her afraid. Not until then. Maybe she'd always been afraid, but hid it well. She'd hid many things.

"I remember you," he said.

 _Shink._

"I looked for you for a while, you know. Even though you told me not to."

Silence.

He sighed, rubbed the bridge of his nose – then launched into a story of everything that happened since he'd retired from Beacon.

He spoke of the ancient battlefields he'd returned to in memorial – of skirting the overgrown ruins of Mirrah, of sailing through half-sunken Heide, of walking the plain in Vacuo where worlds had collapsed on each other and ended and began again. He spoke of the missions he'd taken, of lives both saved and lost, of the strange, ancient Grimm he'd seen deep in the wilds and hadn't dared provoke.

And when he was done talking, he placed the sword, now sharp, back in the chest, and put the chest against the wall, and returned to Beacon, Joseph's coat tucked under his arm.

* * *

 **The Lucatiel sub-plot thickens. A little reference to one of her classic lines at the end there - changed, of course, to fit the context.  
**

 **Winter and Artorias are being buddy-cops again. That's always fun.**

 **Took a little poke at Doctor Polendina's semblance. It's very similar to the one I've had in mind for Roman (and actively used in Roman's PoV scenes), though there's a minor difference.**

 **Using Port for comic relief, nothing changes there...**

 **Just throwing this out there: I'm writing with the rule that Sulyvahn will never get a PoV scene. The air of mystery and dread surrounding Sulyvahn in DS3 calls for it. Everything you see of Sulyvahn will be from somebody else's perspective.**

 **This wasn't the first direct reference to Aldrich, by the way. One of the opening monologues a few chapters back was about Aldrich and Gwyndolin. And this one is about... well. You know. You do know, don't you? Maybe it's too vague.**

 **I digress.**

 **There were only meant to be three chapters bridging V2 and V3. This intermediary arc is getting out of hand.**

 **Next chapter - August 11th.**


	23. Chapter 22: Discretion

_This one. Arrogant. Self-righteous. She started it all. She's the reason I'm here. This was all her idea, her plan. None of us should have listened to her, least of all me. She'll offer you anything except for your freedom. Power, peace, happiness – but will you be happy in here? I thought not. She might even offer you revenge, but you don't need her for that, do you?_

 _Maybe she has a way out. I don't know why, but I feel it's something she'd do, something she's done before. Running away. And if anyone would have their own private exit, it'd be her. But I doubt_ he _would have allowed it. Hell, I doubt I…_

 _Forget it, I_ know she _doesn't have a way out. None of us do. Not even poor misguided Filianore._

 _It's neither here nor there. Just don't listen to her. It's all to mess with your head._

 _I'll go on ahead. Don't falter now. Kill the Warden._

/-/

Artorias walked out of the exam hall yawning, despite having spent the last thirty minutes or so half-asleep at his desk. Was his essay on Beowolf pack behaviour of any meaningful quality? Probably not. Was it still worthy of a pass? Probably.

He was shortly joined by Gilderoy, who looked just as apathetic to his result as Artorias. The wolf snorted to himself. Chances were high that Gil was worrying himself to death in that head of his, but was simply too tired from studying to show it. That he'd studied at all was a good indication he'd do well. He usually did.

"How'd you go?" Gil asked.

"Eh." He knew Gil would understand perfectly well what that meant: he wasn't worried.

A few other students were trickling out, Ruby among them. There was still half an hour until the exam was over, but once they'd turned their papers in they'd been allowed to leave.

"How was the first-year exam?" Artorias asked.

"Oh, we had multiple choice today," Ruby said, "so pretty easy. But Port made the answer 'B' for like five questions in a row. Weiss is probably tearing her hair out over it."

"He's an evil, evil man," Gil muttered.

Sun was the next student to emerge. He spotted them waiting by the door. "Yo," he said, stretching his arms to ease the cramps.

"How'd it go?" Ruby asked.

"Aced it," Sun said, probably with far more confidence than was warranted.

Weiss came out next, looking quietly pleased with herself – an expression that faltered when she saw Artorias.

"Uh oh."

"How do _you_ know my sister?"

Artorias glanced left and right, checking to see if Goodwitch was watching, then took a quick sip from his flask. "Classified?"

"Hey Weiss!" Ruby said. "How'd you do, Weiss? Are you ready for tomorrow's exam, Weiss?"

"Classified. Really." Weiss sighed, then addressed Ruby. "I'm confident I did well, and I'm confident I'm prepared for tomorrow."

"Neat."

Weiss levelled her glare at Artorias again. "We were on a mission together a few years back. She talked to you after we sparred, yeah?"

"She didn't call it sparring."

"I'm sticking with it."

Ruby cleared her throat. "Well, that's all sorted now, right? We're all still friends?"

"More-or-less," Weiss muttered. Artorias shrugged. Although, speaking of Winter…

"Hey – have you guys followed up on that Yarrow thing at all?"

"We have, actually," Ruby said. "We just found a _lot_ of blood. Like… horror-movie levels of blood."

Junior's men, maybe? Clearly _someone_ had found them, if they hadn't come back. "Huh. When was this?"

"A few days," Weiss said.

"Really? You left it that long?" Sun asked.

"We meant to go earlier, but things kept coming up!" Ruby fumed. "I'm serious, it was like – let's go check out Yarrow's place! Oh wait, we have a _mission._ Let's go check out Yarrow's place! Oh wait, there are _Grimm in Vale._ It was so annoying."

They chatted idly as more and more students came out. Eventually, once their teams had all gathered – alongside Team Juniper – they departed, all going their separate ways.

/-/

"How were your exams?" Vengarl asked as Teams Ruby and Juniper filed into the training room. There were a myriad of responses – shrugs from Jaune and Yang and Blake, a tentative "Alright," from Ruby and Pyrrha, and a satisfied nod from Weiss.

And, of course, Nora spouting some nonsense about one of the questions. Ren calmed her down quickly enough.

"Jaune, Yang – to the floor. I want to see you spar. Don't pummel him while he's down, Miss Xiao Long – we don't want to waste his aura without him learning."

"What if I knock her down?"

Yang snickered. Vengarl didn't answer and gestured for them to begin.

Yang threw the first punch, as he expected. Jaune had certainly improved in the short time they'd been training together, and held off her first assault well, not merely fending it off but weaving between her strikes. His footwork had always been good, but now he made much better use of it, keeping her at the perfect range to score a few hits in retaliation without putting himself at undue risk.

Vengarl was proud to see what Jaune had learned when he pulled out one of the attacks drilled into him. Ducking beneath Yang's left hook and dancing to her side, he landed two powerful blows before she could recover to face him – and by that point he was already spinning, using every muscle in his body to whip his sheathe into her face.

Yang caught it on the back of her gauntlet, however, and though she stumbled a little from the force she managed to follow up with a low sweep kick, sending Jaune toppling to the floor.

"Good, both of you," Vengarl praised.

"You've gotten better, Vomit-boy," Yang agreed, offering him a hand.

"And I'll never live that name down," he muttered.

The gears in Vengarl's mind turned. He'd seen Jaune successfully stagger Yang. In a contest of strength, Yang would surely take the victory, and even with Jaune throwing his full body weight into the strike, she should have fended it off far better. Maybe he'd caught her by surprise, or maybe there was something off with her technique. "Yang, you stay there. Jaune, come back. Miss Valkyrie?"

"Ooh, do I get to beat her up?"

"Until one of you is knocked down, yes. Yang, I want to see you fighting defensively this time – you knock her down in one punch or not at all."

"Wait, what?"

"I like this rule!" Nora cheered, bouncing her way down to the ring.

"I don't!"

"Good luck." He indicated that they begin.

Yang was more wary this time, letting Nora close the distance between them. Nora brought the hammer crashing down, though it was such a telegraphed attack that Yang dodged with ease. Still, she didn't retaliate. Nora swung in wide, frenzied arcs with far more speed than Vengarl thought such a heavy weapon should ever move. Yang dodged backwards.

Vengarl peered closer. He knew what he wanted to see – he wanted to see Yang _block._

Nora gave chase, giving Yang no time to breath. Every time the hammer swung, Yang dodged at the last second, waiting for Nora to overbalance herself.

Soon enough, an opportunity came. Even Nora's seemingly boundless energy had a limit, and she stumbled after a particularly wild swing, the hammer dragging her more than she dragged the hammer. Yang capitalized, darting into Nora's guard and bringing a fist cracking into the ginger girl's chin. Her head snapped back and she staggered, but did not fall, raising the hammer over her head to bring down on Yang.

Yang's mouth moved – Vengarl supposed she was swearing – and she crossed her arms over her head, bracing herself for impact. The hammer clanged against her metal gauntlets, but didn't break through her guard, instead sending her sliding backwards across the floor.

Good. It wasn't her technique – she'd let the impact travel right through her, minimizing its effects as much as she could. Jaune had simply caught her by surprise. He'd make her aware that she should never underestimate an opponent, then move on.

"You can let loose now, Yang," he called.

"Nail, meet hammer," Yang said, grinning.

It was over quickly after that. Nora was already starting to wear out from chasing Yang, while the blonde was still relatively fresh.

"Yang, you underestimated Jaune."

"Huh? A bit late on the uptake, gramps."

"I needed to confirm it. Now I have. Never underestimate an opponent – that goes for all of you. Even the Grimm. You'd be surprised how many of them have developed rudimentary intelligence."

Yang shrugged. "Sure." He wasn't sure if the message had quite sunk in – if not, she'd suffer in the tournament, but it would be her own fault and not his.

His advice to Nora would be that she pace herself, but then, he _had_ imposed rules that forced her to be the more aggressive one in the spar. He'd wait, for now. "Ruby, Ren – it's your turn."

/-/

"You really think he'd hole up in an old White Fang base?"

" _They were working with Torchwick. Clearly the Fang are relaxing their standards on business partners."_

"The Fume Knight isn't just a human, he also controls the _Grimm._ You know, bone plates, big claws, red eyes?"

" _It's the best lead we have. Unless you know something I don't?"_

"No," Artorias grumbled. "I mean, I guess it makes some sense. Not that we've seen any evidence of the Fang and the Fume Knight working together."

He and Winter had split up, each going to separate locations but communicating via scroll. The warehouse Artorias was searching was just about empty, save for a tin of red paint he'd found in the corner. He'd never really thought about it, but it made sense that they'd need paint. They put their stupid logo on just about everything they owned, after all.

"You found anything?" he asked.

" _Empty,"_ Winter said. _"There's a few dust crystals scattered around, though – they must have missed some when they left. I'll get them checked for fingerprints."_

"Great. We might catch some low-tier White Fang grunt. That'll _really_ help."

" _Shut up, Artorias."_

Artorias had briefly considered doing a double-check of Yarrow's house; someone _must_ have been there recently. But if Team RWBY hadn't found anyone, they were probably long gone anyway.

" _I'm heading to the old Fang safehouse on Pearl street. Are you done there?"_

"Yeah. Empty. Reckon I should take this paint?"

" _What paint?"_

"Red paint. Think I'd like good in red?"

" _That's not how dyeing works, Artorias."_

"I beg to differ." He tapped the tin, letting the clanging noise echo into the scroll's mic. "You just dip clothes in there and they change colour, right?"

" _Fine. Try it. I need a good laugh."_

"I could just tell a joke instead," Artorias offered, leaving the paint behind. "Why did the Schnee cross the road?"

" _I don't know. Get to the next location, Artorias. Auxiliary aircraft hangar 12."_

"Because the road crossed her first."

" _It be funnier if it was someone stereotypically known for backstabbing – a mercenary or an assassin, for example. Or maybe a politician?"_

Artorias set off along the docks, breathing deeply. It was late in the evening, the sun having gone down not long before and the air was cold and fresh and just a little salty from the sea. "Yeah, but then it wouldn't be a Schnee-joke, would it? I'll try again. Knock knock."

There was an audible sigh. _"Who's there?"_

"Schnee."

" _Schnee who?"_

"Just kidding, I'm the butler."

" _How original. You've never made a butler joke before,"_ Winter drawled, her voice oozing sarcasm.

"Alright, alright – how about this? The only difference between asking a girl out and telling her a joke is that she never laughs at the joke."

There was a moment of silence before Winter snorted. _"Did Quelana laugh at you?"_

"Actually, she asked me; it was Ciaran who laughed. How's the safehouse?"

" _Not there yet. The hangar?"_

"Just arrived." The main hangar door was open, and he stepped in. It was quite dark inside, but being a faunus he could see well enough. "Huh. No Bullheads."

" _You really think the Fang would have left aircraft behind? They're too valuable."_

"But not something you can easily hide. If they were still in the city, somebody would have heard about it."

" _True. Do you think they've gone outside the walls?"_

"Most likely. It's possible they've moved on from Vale entirely. Wouldn't that be nice?"

" _Doubtful. Look for signs that somebody's living there. How big is it?"_

"Pretty damn big," Artorias said. It was at least big enough for four Bullheads while still leaving space at the back where ground vehicles were parked – forklifts, mostly. Catwalks ran around the edge of the hangar, providing access to doors that lead to smaller side rooms – probably storage, or maybe offices. Shipping containers ringed the walls. Artorias checked the closest one – it was completely empty.

" _Be thorough, then. We don't want to miss anything."_

Artorias was about to get to work when he heard something familiar – humming. A Bullhead's engine.

He poked his head back out the door. There was a Bullhead flying in from the general direction of Patch, and flying _very_ low.

"Uh, Winter?"

" _What?"_

"There's a Bullhead incoming."

" _Are you sure it's not approved traffic?"_

"I think it's flying too low," he said. "I'll see where it lands."

He observed it for a while. The pilot obviously wasn't too experienced – the sound of the engines wasn't nearly as smooth as what Artorias was used to, but it remained steady on its course. Just before it flew overhead, however, the engines screamed as the Bullhead was brought to a halt.

Then it began to lose altitude.

"Shit," Artorias swore. "It's going to land here!"

" _Mute your scroll and hide,"_ Winter ordered. _"Keep watch, of course."_

Artorias did so, dashing deeper into the hangar and taking refuge behind one of the shipping containers. The Bullhead's landing was not smooth in the slightest, shuddering and scraping along the hangar floor as it was set down. Artorias narrowed his eyes, peering at the cockpit, but he couldn't see much beyond vague movements through the tinted glass.

Only one passenger emerged, wearing the helmet of a pilot – and that too was soon removed, though they were looking the other way and Artorias couldn't see his face. He was, however, bald. Artorias could tell that much.

"One pilot, no passengers," he whispered, knowing Winter could hear him even if he couldn't hear her. "I can't see any cargo." The pilot threw his helmet back into the Bullhead, then closed the side-door and made his way towards the hangar's exit. "Wait with the Bullhead, or follow the pilot?"

His scroll buzzed lightly. Winter had sent him a message. _Bullhead._

Artorias waited five minutes before making his move, just in case the pilot returned. He unmuted his scroll again as he ran over to the Bullhead.

"I can hear you again," he said.

" _As long as nobody else can, fine by me,"_ she said. _"Were there any passengers?"_

"Just the pilot. He's bald, thin, not very tall. I didn't see his face." He reached the Bullhead and punched in a random code to the keypad controlling the boarding ramp. Predictably, it didn't work. "Most people don't change the factory default password, right?"

" _For the Bullheads?"_

"Yeah. Do you know what it is?"

" _It depends where it was manufactured. Try 3411."_

He tried it. "Didn't work."

" _6969."_

"You're kidding me."

" _You'd be surprised how immature the people who make these things are."_

Artorias rolled his eyes and tried the code. His eyebrows shot right up into his hairline when the door opened and the boarding ramp began to extend.

" _That sounds promising."_

"I won't ever question you again," Artorias murmured.

" _I wish I could believe that. What's the cargo?"_

Artorias walked up the ramp and glanced around. There was… nothing. Well – there were seats and handles for passengers, the door leading to the cockpit, the first-aid kit hanging from the wall, but no cargo. "Empty."

Winter cursed under her breath. _"I should have sent you after the pilot."_

"Hey, it's my fault too. Where are you?"

" _Still checking the safehouse – it's empty so far, by the way. Are there any security cameras in the hangar?"_

"I didn't see any."

" _Of course – the White Fang would have made sure of that. When we get back to Beacon, I'll requisition cameras so we can bug this place."_

Artorias let out a long sigh. "At least it's something."

" _At least it's something,"_ Winter agreed. _"We'll check the last two places tomorrow night. Do a lap of the docks– you might still have time to catch the pilot, if he's on foot. If you can't find him, meet up with me and we'll head back to Beacon."_

/-/

Vengarl laced the fingers of one hand with the other behind his back, looked up at the painting, and waited.

He'd sent Oz the message to meet him here: "Surveying exquisite art." He assumed Oz would know what it meant. What else could it mean, after all? He was hardly a collector of such things, and there was only one piece of art that both he and Oz shared an interest in. Not that it was for the _sake_ of art. Oh no. Certainly not.

It had been a simple matter to convince the security officers to turn the other cheek to his presence. All he'd had to do was drop his name and his titles and just a hint of his history, and once they'd confirmed his identity they'd respectfully left him alone. This exhibit was to commemorate the Great War, after all, and he may very well have been _the_ last surviving veteran of said war. And besides – it was hardly like he was hiding the existence of a hidden passage this time. It wouldn't hurt to let them know he was there.

His gaze wandered back to the painting. He'd not spent much time looking at it as a piece of art – not the previous night, and certainly not in his expedition to the vaults beneath Mantle, long ago. But whenever he saw it, he felt strangely comforted, as though a presence was watching over him. Maybe the girl within could see out. He didn't know.

Footsteps echoed behind him, but not accompanied by the familiar tap of a cane. A guard, most likely. He grimaced. He'd been clear that he was to be left alone.

"Sir Vengarl Sand," said a man's voice. "The last knight of Vale. You're a hard man to find."

Not a guard, then. Vengarl turned to see a tall man with a hooked nose and pale purple eyes. "It's not a title I care for," he said gruffly.

"My apologies, then," said the man. "What should I call you?"

"Vengarl will do," Vengarl said. "And you are…"

"Sulyvahn. Councilman Sulyvahn." He offered a hand; Vengarl shook it. "And it's through my influence that this wonderful painting was shown once more to the world."

Vengarl's eyes narrowed. "A painting that belongs to the Academy, not to the Kingdom. Forgive my suspicion, but…"

"James was more than happy to humour me," Sulyvahn said. "I believe that works of great beauty such as these should be shared, not left in a basement to rot away. And what a beauty it is, no?"

"I'm not much of an artist."

"True genius can be appreciated by high-brow and low-brow alike. If you observe closely, you'll realise that the artist has only truly depicted one or two trees – the rest are merely implied in the shapes and the colours. Look at the strong lines of the bridge against the frosty backdrop. It stands out, does it not? Your eyes are drawn to it, and from there upwards to the chapel. You climb the mountain as though you are physically there."

Vengarl supposed he was right, though, knowing the truth of the Painted World, he knew that to enter was to physically climb the mountain as Sulyvahn suggested. "I suppose I see what you mean," Vengarl said, hedging his bets. It wouldn't do to accuse a councilman of hunting for an all-powerful relic left by the literal gods unless he was absolutely certain he was right.

Sulyvahn sighed. "I didn't come here just to discuss art, of course. I wanted to talk with you about history."

Vengarl frowned. "I don't appreciate being followed."

"Noted. I'll find another way to reach you, if I need to." Vengarl grimaced – he was just another upper-class bastard who thought they owned everyone else's time. "You were part of the Blue Legion, no? You were present at the battle of Vacuo?"

"I was."

"Would you mind recounting your experience for me?"

The battle of Vacuo. The final battle of the Great War.

No two people's memory of the battle was quite alike: the Relic of Knowledge had seen to that, warping the soldiers' memories of the battle to fit with what they knew of the world. Some days, even Vengarl wasn't sure if his memory was accurate.

But what he remembered was… fantastic. Majestic. Ridiculous, in some circles.

He could remember the ash and the smoke seeping into his lungs, the cries of dying soldiers echoing across the battlefield. He could remember the snarls of Grimm encroaching upon the Valean encampment. He could remember Joseph's roaring commands to flank, to fend off the Grimm, to charge at Mantle's fresh-faced recruits and cut them down to bleed a hole for the Valean armies.

And he could remember a city, collapsing into the sand and the blood, disappearing as quickly as it had come.

"We fought," Vengarl hedged, "and we won. What more is there to it?"

"Accounts differ," Sulyvahn said. "You may be the only remaining primary source on the topic."

Vengarl was quiet for some time. The battle played out in his head. Everything from the sand that had crusted on his boots to the blood that had dried on his sword. Everything from the smoke that had stung his eyes to the ash that had filled his lungs. Everything from the wonder upon seeing the city manifest before him to the dread of… _her._

"I'd rather not talk about it, if it's all the same to you," he said.

Sulyvahn seemed disappointed, yet respectful towards his wishes. "War is war. I understand."

"I don't think you do," Vengarl frowned. "Have you ever watched a man scoop up his own entrails because it's all his pain-addled mind could think to do?"

"I can't say I have."

"Have you ever seen a woman shut down so completely from grief that she could be mistaken for the dead?"

"I have not."

"Have you ever prayed that the Grimm would come for you so you wouldn't have to take another human life?"

Sulyvahn was silent, though he seemed thoughtful rather than unsettled, his strange eyes fixed firmly on Vengarl's own.

"War is war, Councilman Sulyvahn, and war is all these things and more. Atlas is the greatest threat to peace in the modern world, and I'll be damned if I don't educate her councilmen on the horrors of battle."

"Meaning no disrespect, Vengarl," Sulyvahn said, "but you're wrong. The Grimm are a far greater threat."

"They are a threat the way an earthquake is a threat: unstoppable, but limited in what it can achieve. A beast without a brain."

Footsteps could be heard approaching, this time joined by the tapping of a cane. Oz was here. Sulyvahn addressed Vengarl. "If that's what you believe, so be it. Peace be with you." He bowed his head slightly in respect, then departed.

"What strange company you keep," Oz murmured, watching as Sulyvahn left.

/-/

Emerald suppressed a strangled sigh. The Headmaster had as good as snuck up on her, hiding in the corner, and she'd had to duck behind a display case to avoid being seen. But it had left her open to be seen by somebody coming from the other direction, as Sulyvahn was doing now – and she didn't have time to move.

She reached out with her semblance. What should he see? Marble walls reflecting the dull amount of light left by the dust-powered lights, pillars casting faint shadows, display cases full of ancient artifacts – but most importantly, he shouldn't see her.

Every mind felt a little different. It was the slight brush of her mind against theirs that left the headaches and the migraines – some were not too unlike her own, and so had less severe consequences, but even then, it was always clear to her that she was invading something foreign, something that she had no right to.

Sulyvahn's felt…

It felt _empty._

A lance of pain shot through her skull. She gritted her teeth, biting down on the grunt that almost escaped her, and held the image in his mind.

More pain. It was as though a wasp had entered her head, creating an incessant, painfully loud buzzing. And when it stung – oh, how it stung. Her hand gripped tightly on the edge of the display case, supporting her lest she fall.

She was vaguely aware that Sulyvahn looked her way, but she felt so close to blacking out that maybe, just maybe, she was imagining it. Nevertheless, she pushed on. She couldn't let him see her. Cinder had said as much – Sulyvahn was not to know.

The pain receded as soon as Sulyvahn turned the corner, an act that must have taken only a few seconds but which felt like an age. She staggered to her feet, realising that at some point she'd fallen. A quick glance back to the main foyer told her that neither the headmaster nor the old man had heard her – good. She took a quick second to breath until she felt normal again, then followed Sulyvahn, keeping low and quiet so as not to alert the people standing before the painting.

She rounded the corner, and Sulyvahn was standing there, looking right at her, a finger raised to his lips. She stopped as though caught with her hand in a cookie jar, which in a way she was. That it was her first choice of simile also indicated that she was spending _way_ too much time with Ruby, and wasn't it good that Mercury was taking that job?

Although now, she rather envied the simplicity of it. She'd just been caught, after all.

"What were you doing?" Sulyvahn asked. He kept his voice low so as to not alert Ozpin or Vengarl, but aside from that he seemed to be making nothing more than idle conversation.

Emerald didn't let her guard down.

"I asked what you were doing," Sulyvahn repeated. "What did you do to me?"

"…I was lost." He wouldn't buy it for a second, of course.

"I'm sure." He frowned. "You tried to do something to me."

"Oh – sorry if I was eavesdropping, I just wanted to ask for directions back to Beacon."

"I'm not in the mood for jokes." Sulyvahn said. He drew himself to his full height, looming over her like a menacing cathedral. "Your semblance. You will tell me what it is." He took a step closer. Emerald shuffled away.

"I just have a _really_ bad sense of direction. That's my semblance," she quipped.

Sulyvahn darted forwards before she could react. His right hand clamped down on her shoulder, the other on her mouth. Once it was clear she wasn't going to scream, he uncovered her mouth. "The truth, Miss Sustrai."

She jerked her shoulder, trying to break free, but his grip was like iron, so firm that a little aura sparked from the struggle.

"You may find this hard to believe, but I'm not your enemy."

She rolled her eyes. "Controlled hallucinations," she said. "Happy?"

He released her and adjusted the cuff of his sleeve – it had wrinkled slightly in the muted struggle. "Rather unusual," he said. "But you seemed to trust in it enough. You may go. Tell your master to meet with me at her earliest convenience."

Emerald eyed him warily. "What will you do?"

"I thought a spy was meant to be subtle," he scoffed. "I suppose you'd continue to follow me anyway. I certainly would, were I in your position. I don't blame you." He stepped past her towards the entrance to the foyer, where Ozpin had gone. Now his steps were light, near-silent. "Use your semblance. Hide my approach. I wish to listen in."

"I can't – it's hard with two people."

"But possible, no?"

She grimaced and nodded.

Something about his smile unsettled her as he walked back towards her. She wanted to turn and run, but the only thing she could think to fear more in that moment than his grin was the consequence of turning her back on him.

He cupped her chin with one hand and forcefully raised her eyes towards him. "If you can, you will," he said, and Emerald found that she couldn't disagree, not with his hand so close to her neck. Necks were fragile. Necks could break.

That was what his smile was telling her. That her life meant little to him.

"I'll do it," she muttered.

/-/

"What strange company you keep," Oz murmured.

"Not by choice," Vengarl responded. "He approached me."

Oz hummed, absentmindedly tapping the index finger of his right hand against the pearl set in his cane. "No matter, then." He let out a long sigh, looking up towards the painting. "Did I ever tell you why the Painted World exists?"

"No," Vengarl said. "You always seemed to skirt around that topic."

"I'm sure I did. It was a prototype, I suppose you could say. But it lasted longer than its successor ever did." He sipped at his coffee – of course he'd brought coffee, Vengarl thought. Why wouldn't he?

"Hmm?"

"The Ringed City." Oz said. "Paradise. It was certainly _meant_ to be paradise, at least. But circumstances change." Oz frowned. "But that doesn't quite do it justice. The Painted World was a gift to Priscilla."

Vengarl drew a sharp breath. Priscilla – the girl Lucatiel had addressed in her letters. The girl in the painting. "From who?"

"From whom," Oz corrected. "From all of us, I suppose. We all doted on her. She was… innocent. The only innocent, perhaps. Well, aside from…" he trailed off, but Vengarl didn't want to push him to continue. "Nevermind," Oz said. "She's not caught up on recent events, not for a millennia, at least, so don't be too harsh on her." He produced the little doll from his pocket and offered it to Vengarl.

"I don't think you understand," Vengarl said. "I don't want to see the Painted World. I want _you_ to do what you could not eighty-odd years ago."

Oz kept his face neutral, but his silence alone was enough to tell Vengarl that internally the headmaster was screaming in protest.

"I will stay at Beacon for as long as you need me, if only you face Priscilla," Vengarl said.

"You don't understand," Oz protested. "Priscilla… she and I have our differences. Especially after..."

"After what?"

"You _couldn't_ understand," Oz said. "Know only that there's a very good reason why I don't want to see her."

"And there are very good reasons why you should. You owe it to Lucatiel."

Oz flinched.

"Look to the future," Vengarl said. "You say you want me on your side. Show me."

Oz cleared his throat. "Very well," he said. "Still, take this." He pressed the doll into Vengarl's hands. "Return it to my office. It's not something I'd want to take with me if I didn't have to."

Vengarl nodded, took the doll, and pocketed it. Oz squared his shoulders. "It's been a long time."

Vengarl kept his silence, letting the older man speak. Despite his best attempts, Oz suddenly seemed ancient, weighed down with the wisdom of countless years. "Maybe she'll forgive me."

"I don't know everything that happened between you," Vengarl said, "but I think she would."

Oz chuckled softly. "But that's the problem. You don't know everything." With that, he drained his coffee mug, then held his right hand to the painting. It shimmered and swirled like a whirlpool where he touched it, drawing him in, then with a flash of light, Oz disappeared.

* * *

 **Full disclosure, I wrote a lot of this chapter while drunk.**

 **Next chapter - 18th August.**

 **EDIT: Due to unforeseen circumstances, the next chapter will actually be out on Sunday (20th August). Sorry to keep you waiting.**


	24. Chapter 23: Ariamis

**Sorry about the delay. Enjoy.**

* * *

 _I'm no fighter, but we all have to pull our weight. What did I say? A fabulous team indeed. This is my contribution, such as it is._

 _All these trials, these_ worlds _, they all came from this place, came together to forge an impossible prison, powered by Creation itself, built by an architect as genius as he was mad. All but one. Look down – you can see it, can't you? The one trial built by the Jailer himself. The Ringed City, we call it, the gateway back to Remnant. If the Ringed City is the gateway, the Wardens are the locks. And locks are made to be broken, right? No? Well, that's what we're doing, so fuck it._

 _But I've got a plan, see? We can spare one, maybe two, and still get away smelling like roses, as long as the Jailer helps us out. Hopefully he won't realise what he's doing until it's too late. But sparing a few implies killing the rest, and like I said – killing's not my forte._

 _And so, I turned to you. If only…_

 _In all honesty, there's something I should tell you. I try to play it off, but I haven't a clue about my past. Who I was, or what I lived for – not even my own blessed name. Only this place, this prison. It's consumed me. Nothing else matters._

 _Maybe I'll remember. Everything I ever was – I'll share it with you before we part ways, if it comes back to me. All the people I loved. All the grudges I held. I dunno. I have a feeling that's the kind of man I was._

 _I'm making up for it now though, aren't I? Where'd you be without me? In your damn cell, that's where._

 _But for now, well, I suppose you still need something to call me. I'll think on it. It'd be nice to choose my own name._

 _There's a power in names, wouldn't you say? Names and stories are what remain when all the deeds have been done. What will they say about us when the ages roll past, I wonder?_

/-/

When Ozpin came to, he found himself on a suspension bridge of wood and rope. Behind him, the planks had fallen away, leaving only an endless drop into darkness. Ahead, it lead to a small path that wound up the mountain towards the chapel.

The wind was bitingly cold. He supposed he should have expected that. Still, his aura would do what it could to fend off the weather. His hands rested on the pearl set in the handle of his cane. In theory, he could clear the weather himself, but he chose not to.

 _There's nothing else for it._ Ozpin set off along the bridge, feeling it creak and sway with every step. But he was confident it would hold. It was engrained within the canvas of the painting. The bridge would never collapse. The mild snowfall would never abate. The chapel would always stand, for as long as the canvas remained intact.

Snow crunched beneath his shoes as he stepped from the bridge. When was the last time anybody had walked this path? Lucatiel, surely, though technically Ozpin himself had been the last visitor to the painting, leaving the Relic of Destruction for Priscilla to find and return to its resting place.

It must have been lonely for her, he thought. She'd seen so few people since she'd come here. And of those few people, most of them wanted something. Perhaps all of them.

He pushed open the chapel doors. The interior was… homely. Pleasant, even. There was no fire, but there was warmth. Thousands upon thousands of paintings looked down on him from the walls, some of landscapes, some of people. A ladder lead up to the attic. Towards the back of the room, a gaping hole lead down into the ground, the stairs disappearing into the darkness. And behind the hole was an altar, atop which sat three marble statues.

On the right was a statue of a man in a tall jagged crown made of gold, with a stern face. In his hands was clasped a golden replica of his greatsword, and a great beard sprawled down his chest and over his shoulders.

On the other side was a statue of a man with a youthful, joyful face. He too wore a crown. Over his long, loose robes he wore an intricately engraved breastplate. Before him, he held a spear not unlike Gilderoy Ornstein's bident, but with a single wider blade and no ballistic component. His hair and his clothes flowed about him as though caught in a great gale.

The final statue, in the middle, was a statue of a woman, a young girl at her side. Both their faces were hooded, but they seemed solemn, and the older woman was clearly comforting the little girl.

Gwyn. Malgwyn. Gwynevere. Priscilla.

Neither Gwyndolin nor Filianore had statues. Something felt very _wrong_ about that. He tapped his cane against the stone floor restlessly. They'd both given so much…

A flame flickered from the tunnel beneath the ground. It came closer and closer, and soon Ozpin could see the girl who carried it: Priscilla herself. She had white hair, not unlike that of a Schnee, and on her skin could be seen the slight shimmer of scales. She was garbed all in white furs, layered like a dress, and a fluffy white tail receded behind her. She hadn't aged a day: the magic of the Painted World had seen to that, but still she seemed older. She'd had a lot of time to think, he supposed, and there was no better way to age than to be left with one's own thoughts.

"Have you misstepped into this world?" she asked. She didn't bat an eyelid at his presence. Instead, she turned her back to him to channel her aura into the middle statue. The altar and the statues atop slid over the entrance, obscuring it from view.

"It's me," he said. "It's Oz."

She looked at him. Her eyes grew cold. "My question stands. You do not belong here."

"I'm where I want to be," Ozpin said, "whether I belong or not."

Realisation dawned on her. "You seek the tomb of Gwyn."

"No," Ozpin shook his head. "I do not. I'm not here for the relic. I'm here to speak with you."

"Speak, then."

Silence reigned for a moment. Ozpin wondered if he should have, perhaps, considered his words on the journey up the mountain. "I suppose the first step would be to apologise," he said at last.

"It would be a start, yes."

He sighed. "Do you know what happened to Salem?"

"I have some idea." She clasped her hands before her. If she'd held a gavel, Ozpin would have thought her a judge.

"We trapped her. We imprisoned her, and we filled that prison with so many locks and chains and guards that she never should have gotten out."

"But I don't understand _why._ "

Ozpin grimaced. "I feared her. Gwyn feared her. Your siblings feared her."

"Not all of them. Not Malgwyn."

"He should have!" Ozpin didn't mean to raise his voice. "She trusted nobody. She _never_ would have trusted Malgwyn with a power like the relics – power that should be shared, not hoarded by-"

"You're a hypocrite," Priscilla said. "Have you not done the same?" Her eyes flickered to the handle of his cane. "Hoarded power?"

"Hidden power. Hidden from those who would abuse it, myself included. Why do you think I have, in over a thousand years, only once come to claim the sword of Gwyn?"

"You didn't come. You sent the girl. My brother's memories were tearing her apart. Seeing me only made it worse. By the time I sent her back, she was stark raving mad." She shuddered. "I never learned her name. I don't think she was capable of giving it to me, poor girl."

The weight of a thousand mistakes bore down on Ozpin's shoulders, and he slouched, leaning heavily on his cane. "Lucatiel," he said. "Her name was Lucatiel."

Priscilla nodded, gesturing up at a cluster of paintings on the wall. While they all depicted a woman in Lucatiel's clothes, in each and every painting she was facing away, towards a sunset. Instead, the focus was always on the backdrop: on mountains and forests and on a little building that vaguely resembled old Mistrali architecture. "I will paint a portrait of her," Priscilla said.

"Is that how you've spent these past years? Painting?"

"I have little else to do," she said. "Nothing else but think."

"And what have you thought about?"

"Fate. Prophecy. Mortality. I have had _centuries_ ," she said, spreading her arms wide to indicate the uncountable paintings. "I thought about you for a while as well, and do you know what I thought? I decided that you were a coward, Wizard, more so than Father or me or even the Hyena. You were more a coward than all of us combined."

" _God and dog are but a coin-toss away, but every dog has his day,"_ Ozpin recited.

" _He turns his coat with the turning of the seasons._ At the very least, you've come to recognise what you value and what you're willing to sacrifice for it. My brother, for instance. But vengeance won't return him to me. Do what you will with Remnant; if you see his soul again, however, promise me you will not lay a finger on him."

Ozpin's gaze lifted upwards to the statue on the left, but instead imagined a carved marble effigy of Lucatiel of Mirrah, whose soul had once belonged to the Nameless King of Mantle.

"I promise," he said.

She narrowed her eyes. So mistrusting.

"I swear it, lest the Red Hood come for me."

"Do you really believe in prophecy?" Priscilla asked, raising an eyebrow. "It's interesting rhetoric, but ultimately self-fulfilling. Had you never heard it, little of it would have come to pass."

" _What do the dying live for? They all die in time."_ Ozpin found that he was unable to stop himself from speaking. "Would you rather have _her_ visit you and find me in a grave?"

" _Best laid plans_ , wasn't it? _"_ Priscilla taunted. "And how awry, _my lord_ , was your vengeance?" She turned the title into a mockery, her mouth twisting into an uncharacteristic sneer.

"Whether it was divine guidance or clever manipulation, the prophet was right on many accounts," Ozpin said.

"Who is your mythical Red Hood then, Oz? What did you see that I did not? I saw my brother, Oz. I saw him die. I saw Father die. I saw Salem disappear. If anyone should take the mantle of Red Hood, it is you."

"You were never meant to suffer, Yorshka."

"Don't call me that!" she snarled. For the first time, Ozpin saw her truly angry. Her eyes blazed golden, narrowing into slits as she glared at him. She stalked closer to him, nostrils flaring, so close that he could feel her breath heavy on his face. "You have no right."

Their eyes locked for a long time. Oz looked away first. Priscilla didn't appear to find any joy in the small victory, but still she backed away, anger not yet abated.

"Gwyn was my friend," he said quietly. He'd been a flawed man, but everyone had been flawed. Ozpin still was flawed. Each mistake he'd made in his long, long life was like the epicentre of a blow to glass, spreading outwards across his soul as a web of cracks might. A lesser soul might shatter.

He felt old. He felt tired. _What do the dying live for?_ How did Vengarl do it? His eyes flickered unwittingly once more to the altar that carried the statues. Gwyn's tomb lay beneath.

"Malgwyn trusted you. Your failure killed them both."

"Don't hold me responsible for Salem's actions."

"She took action, at least. While you plotted and schemed from your ivory tower in Vale, Salem _fought._ What did your scheming and plotting achieve? Everyone lost, Oz."

"Do you think I don't know that?" He didn't raise his voice, but his gaze returned to meet hers. "You're not the only one to spend a thousand years pondering. I know I lost. I know you lost. But life went on."

" _What do the dying live for?"_ she taunted.

"I would change nothing."

" _They all die in time."_

"I had no other choice. I couldn't take Malgwyn's side, and I wouldn't take Gwyn's. It's the way we are. We _want_." Ozpin knew that he was no exception. He recalled the _power_ he'd felt on the plain at Vacuo, at the end of the Great War: the first time in history that anyone one being had held all four relics at once.

And he could remember the terrible consequences.

"Power corrupts us all. It happened to me. It happened to Gwyn. It happened to Salem. It would have-"

"Don't you dare," she threatened. "Don't you _dare_ slander his name. My brother was the best of us."

"He loved you, I know. Don't let that love blind you. Men called us gods and lords, but we were no better than them. We had greater triumphs, yes, but even more terrible defeats."

"What did he ever do but love?"

"He killed!" Ozpin snapped. "He killed _thousands_ , Priscilla. A war, no matter how righteous, is still a deadly affair."

"He didn't want to."

"But he did. Salem was the closest thing I ever had to a family. Do you think I _wanted_ to- to toss her in a cell? I _had_ to, Priscilla." His voice cracked. "I'm sorry. That's what you want to hear, is it not? I'm _sorry._ I'm sorry for Malgwyn and Lucatiel, and I'm sorry I haven't found them again. You're wrong, Priscilla. He was never the best of us; _you_ were. You never did anything but laugh and love and dream. I'm sorry you hate me. I'm sorry I taught you to hate."

She was silent. She regarded him with keen eyes for a time. Ozpin could only imagine the thoughts swirling through her head. Was she angry? Was she accepting? He couldn't know.

Priscilla nodded almost imperceptibly, then turned away and laid her hand on the altar. Her aura flared white for a moment, then the altar slid away once more to reveal the passage below.

"I'm not here for Gwyn," Ozpin said quietly.

"There's something you should see. Go. I'll wait."

Ozpin took a deep breath to steady his resolve, then descended the stairs. A long hall lay before him, built into the mountain. Statues of silver knights, once Gwyn's rank-and-file soldiers, lined the walls, their weapons held before them in salute.

It was quite dark. Ozpin could see a tall window through the doorway at the other end of the hall, but its light was faint. He walked towards it, his steps echoing off the walls.

There was another set of stairs at the end of the hall leading downwards towards the tomb, after which two sets of shallow steps lead upwards to a giant coffin of marble and gold. A little to the left, just before the final few steps, was a wooden chair that seemed tiny by comparison.

The light was a little better here. The window looked out from the side of the mountain. It was partially opaque, but he could see snow falling outside.

Ozpin took the steps slowly.

There was something on top of the coffin. Two things, in fact: a little bundle of blue flowers with white stems; and a hat with a long, narrow brim, crowned with down feathers the colour of ash and with one long black feather at the back that pointed upwards.

"Do you think I made it this far before I lost it?"

Ozpin turned, startled, to see Lucatiel sitting in the chair next to him. "I guess I must have. But why would I leave that behind?"

"I'll admit, it seems unusual," Ozpin said. "A final moment of clarity?"

"Why would I spent my last sane moments honouring Gwyn?" Lucatiel stood and joined him next to the coffin. Her hand reached out to touch the bundle of flowers, but she passed right through them. "And who left these?"

Ozpin looked up to the window. There was something below it, embedded in the wall above the coffin. He peered closer.

It was a spear with a long, broad head – Malgwyn's swordspear, a lost heirloom of Mantle's royal line. Cracks ran through the wall, emanating from where the spear was embedded. It had clearly been thrown, most likely in anger.

"Do you think I brought it here?" Lucatiel asked. "Not in this life, but in another?"

"She wanted me to see it. Perhaps you did, perhaps as Faraam. It shouldn't be here."

"If not here, where?" Lucatiel frowned at him.

"With you."

"Don't make me laugh." She leaned her back against the coffin and crossed her arms. "Malgwyn is dead. I am dead. Whoever inherited our soul should not be a slave to our memories. They don't deserve my fate."

"You could live again through them. Isn't that what you wanted? To not just live, but to exist as _Lucatiel._ "

"In someone else's body? I don't have that luxury, Oz, not like you do. Who's to say Malgwyn's memories wouldn't surface first? Or memories of any other of our many, many lives, for that matter? And who's to say that it wouldn't drive them mad?"

 _Please…_

"June's done well enough."

 _I don't know who I am. I don't want to live. I want to exist. Please._

"That's different, and you know it. She only has memories of – what? One life? Two? Three? Gwynevere will always be the dominant personality. It's a shame, really, that June never had a chance to develop for herself before she was Awakened to that life, but perhaps it spared her the insanity of it all." She shook her head. "The swordspear should remain here. Do you think I'd want it? No. Of course not."

 _Don't touch me!_

Ozpin nodded, his mouth set in a thin line. "And this?" He gestured to the hat.

 _Was that my name?_

Nobody answered.

 _Remember it. Please._

Ozpin turned away.

 _You know who I am? Remember me. Please._

He returned up the stairs, through the hallway, then back up to the chapel.

"You saw it?"

 _Vengarl… I- I'm sorry. I don't remember. I want to. I can't. I can't! I remember… I had a brother, and a sister, and a sister, sister, sister… did I? I can't remember. Help me, please!_

Ozpin didn't speak. He gave her a single wordless nod, then continued out through the chapel doors.

"Oz!"

 _Tell me my name again. Please._

He halted when Priscilla laid a hand on his shoulder. "He was here, Oz. He called himself-"

"I don't need to know, Priscilla. It doesn't matter."

 _I can't be Lucatiel. I'm… Faraam? Malgwyn? Are you sure I have a name?_

"I want to forgive you, Oz."

 _I'm sorry, I can't. I… please. I don't remember – what was your name? I can't remember. Please._

"I don't."

 _Kill me._

Priscilla watched him go.

* * *

 **This was a shorter chapter, I know, but I felt that this _had_ to stand on its own. I'm sure you understand why. This was also probably the hardest chapter for me to write so far. A few things I've been hinting at for a while are finally confirmed here, and I needed it all to make some measure of sense without an ugly exposition dump. Hopefully, it worked.**

 **The Painted World here is something of an amalgamation of Ariamis, Ariandel, and Darkmoon Tomb, while Priscilla draws from DS1 Priscilla, Yorshka, and the Painter from the DS3 DLCs. When you actually consider the Painted World in DS1, it gives a few possible reasons for why Priscilla is there, but it never really explains what she _does_ with her time. Does she get together with the crow-people for a game of football? Does she play tic-tac-toe with the stone-Andre-clone? Maybe she spends her time looking at lewd fanart of herself, I don't know. She definitely doesn't _just_ stand around in her tower doing nothing, though. That would be quite a boring existence.**

 **I can't really answer those questions. Maybe she _does_ do those things canonically. Here, however, she paints. It seems fitting.**

 **The first draft had a lot of "thou"s and "thee"s and "thine't's've'd'st"s, like how canon Priscilla speaks, but considering that the letters to Priscilla were written in modern English it felt stupid to change now.**

 **Real-life is catching up to me. Unless something big comes up, I'll stick to Friday updates, but I'll be switching to a fortnightly update schedule. Hopefully it won't be permanent, but for now that's how it's gonna be.**

 **Next chapter - September 1st.**


	25. Chapter 24: Time Away

**_I'm sorry!_**

* * *

 _Anyone can predict the future. Getting it right's the hard part. And fuck me, he got a lot of it right._

 _The best laid plans of mice and men, he called it. Said it was vengeance. Said it wouldn't be served cold. And here we are, mice in a maze. He warned us, he said it would happen, and it did. Why didn't he do something about it, though? Why was_ this _the only solution?_

 _Maybe it was too late. Maybe this was their only choice: all of this, just for you._

 _You're not supposed to be flattered._

 _Kill the Warden._

/-/

The next morning, Vengarl ascended the elevator of Beacon tower. He'd returned the poppet to its resting place after Oz had disappeared into the painting; he was here to see the headmaster himself.

Oz buzzed him in. There were bags under his eyes, and he was clutching his mug of coffee like a lifeline. "I'm going to be frank. You look terrible," Vengarl said.

"It went well."

"Yet you look terrible."

"I didn't sleep well. But my visit went… well, it went well."

Vengarl sat across from the headmaster. "Good. No more secrets, Oz."

Oz nodded, drained his mug, then poured himself another. "Coffee?"

"Please."

Oz poured a mug for Vengarl too, then took a small sip from his fresh cup. "Where to start? With Amber, I suppose."

"Amber?"

"The current Fall Maiden," Oz explained. "Her attacker… hmm. I've told you this already, haven't I? Her attacker stole a portion of her power before Qrow could reach her, and she's now in a coma."

"You did mention that, yes."

"We – that is to say James, Qrow, Glynda, June, and I – have devised a solution." He took another sip of his coffee. "You won't like it, but believe me, we're flying blind. If you can see another option, we'd gladly listen."

"What is it, Oz?" Vengarl growled.

"One of James' top scientists developed a machine that can transfer a soul from one host to another. We-"

"That's – that's barbaric! The soul is-"

"Let me finish!" Oz rose from his seat and leaned on the desk, using his arms to support his weight. He loomed towards Vengarl so close that Vengarl could see the bloodshot veins running through his eyes. He clearly hadn't slept well. "If there were _any_ hope that Amber might recover, I wouldn't go through with it, believe me. But when she dies…"

"The power will seek out its other half?"

"Most likely."

Vengarl grimaced, sipped at his coffee, then cracked his knuckles. It wasn't a pretty situation. Ozpin was right about that. "Would Amber's soul supplant the host's, or coexist with it?"

"I don't know." Oz slumped back into his seat. "One would hope the latter, but it's not something we can easily test."

Vengarl let out a long, low whistle. "Shit."

Oz, rarely one to engage in such vulgarities, merely nodded his agreement. "It gets worse. Amber's not the only Maiden to have been attacked. Anastacia, the Summer Maiden, was killed a few months back. We don't know who inherited her power."

"I sincerely hope you're not going to follow that with 'also, the Spring and Winter Maidens want us dead'."

"Fortunately, I won't. Even better, James has Anastacia's murderer in custody…"

"I'm sensing a 'but'."

"…but he's being hunted by somebody calling themself 'the Fume Knight'."

Vengarl paused, coffee mug halfway to his lips. "The Fume Knight?"

"You know him?"

"Rumours. This was… hmm. Decades ago. When I took leave for Joseph's funeral, remember?" Oz nodded. "There was a folk-tale about the Fume Knight in his village. Some people even said that the Fume Knight killed him. All stories come from somewhere, I know, but I looked into it at the time and it seemed to amount to nothing."

Oz started tapping the holo-keyboard on his desk. "What did the stories say he looked like?"

"Wildly exaggerated, I'm sure. I think he was supposed to be as strong as ten men and as tall as a house. He travelled atop the back of a giant Nevermore, and was heralded by black storm-clouds."

Oz's desk projected a hologram of a man in black armour. His tall helmet must have obscured much of his vision, with only narrow slits to see through. His large pauldrons cut an impressive silhouette. A familiar thin sword was held in his right hand, while in his left was an oversized hunk of rock and metal that Vengarl didn't recognise. But still…

"I know him," Vengarl said, standing to examine it closer. A few details were off, sure, but the armour was unmistakeable.

"You do?"

"He was part of Mistral's kingsguard. I haven't seen him since Halgot bridge."

"He died at Halgot?"

"No. Maybe. I know I wounded him, but I don't know what happened to him afterwards."

"It may be somebody else wearing his armour. The battle of Halgot bridge was over eighty years ago."

"If I'm still alive, he might be too."

Oz closed the file and brought up a search for members of Vendrick's kingsguard. "Don't bother," Vengarl said. "I've tried to find out what happened to him, but with no luck."

"If the armour were passed down, it may be easier to find the new owner if we know the original owner. Do any of these names mean anything to you?" The short list of names came up.

Vengarl shrugged. "I know the armour, but not the name nor the face behind it." He recognised only two names: Victor Schnee, father of the famous Nicholas Schnee and honorary member of Vendrick's kingsguard; and Drummond Hollow, once captain of the kingsguard, who had been slain in one-on-one combat by Joseph Arc himself. The others – Alexander Throne, Nostrum Throne, Raime Marabel, and Velstadt Sanctus – were unknown to Vengarl.

"It's not Drummond," Vengarl said. "I suppose if the 'flying on Nevermore' rumour is true, it could be the Schnee. They certainly have the semblance for it."

"There are other methods, and I think if that were the case somebody would take notice that the Nevermore was white. Besides – I believe he returned to Mantle before Halgot." Oz sighed and tapped his chin. "It couldn't be Velstadt," he said quietly. "That leaves us with Raime Marabel or the Throne brothers."

"I'm not familiar with any of them."

"Neither am I." He closed the article. "Whoever he is, Specialist Schnee has been assigned to hunt him down, along with one of June's students."

"You're involving students?"

"If it's taken you this long to figure it out, I'm afraid I have bad news." Oz removed his glasses and rubbed at his temples. "The only candidates for Amber's power are students."

"I'll accept that, but _only_ out of necessity. Is… what's their name?"

"Artorias Nym is involved at June's request, and I'm afraid her reasoning is not my secret to tell. He's capable, though."

Capable wasn't always enough, though Vengarl wouldn't be surprised if Oz were downplaying Mr Nym's abilities. "Have I met him?"

Oz thought for a moment. "I believe you bumped into each other. The day of the Breach? He was leaving my office when you arrived."

It took Vengarl a moment to remember. "The grey-haired wolf faunus?"

"I believe he prefers 'silver-haired'." Oz put his glasses back on.

"The one who picked a fight with Winter Schnee?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Who he's now working with?"

"Whom," Oz corrected, "and yes. Him."

Vengarl sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Do you want me to join them?"

"I'll bring this to their attention. Don't worry – they can handle it." He sipped at his coffee, then stood and moved towards the window overlooking Beacon courtyard. "I hear you've been training teams RWBY and JNPR."

"It's not much different to what Glynda does with them – unless the curriculum has changed greatly since I left – but with so few students I can give each of them more attention. They're doing well. I'm particularly impressed by Miss Nikos. She was a tournament fighter, wasn't she?"

"Yes, she was. Despite her relative fame, she's my ideal candidate for Amber's power. What do you think?"

Vengarl stood, and moved to stand next to Oz. Below, the team in question were crossing the courtyard towards the exam hall. Ren trailed behind the rest a little, waiting for Nora to catch up. Jaune nearly walked into the statue, focused as he was on his scroll, and Pyrrha had to steer him away. Vengarl guessed that he was doing last-minute revision. Ruby burst into rose petals and sped away, Yang hot on her heels.

"I forgot how difficult it was to make these decisions," Vengarl said quietly. He felt that, by asking Pyrrha to be the Maiden, they were potentially dooming her. But at the same time, if they _didn't_ ask her, they'd be dooming somebody else.

And he _liked_ Pyrrha. She was nice – perhaps too nice for her own good, but it was endearing, in a way.

"My main concern is that she would give her life for her team, especially Mr Arc," Oz continued. "It's an admirable quality, but as a Maiden she'd need to prioritise her own safety over anyone else's."

Vengarl gritted his teeth. There was _no_ doubt in his mind that if she ever had to trade her life for Jaune's, she would. "What Huntsman or Huntress wouldn't, without a doubt, give their life for at least one other person?"

"You have a point." If it came to it, Nora would sacrifice herself for Ren, and Ren would do the same for Nora. Team RWBY would willingly give their lives for each other too. Back in the day, so would have Team STRQ – well, aside from Raven, maybe. Glynda would have died for Arstor, and Arstor for Glynda. And the rest of their team…

Well. History spoke for itself. Only a Huntress with no-one to lose would make a perfect candidate, but every Huntress and Huntsman was on a team so that they _had_ someone worth fighting for.

"Pyrrha is… she's a good candidate," Vengarl said, with heavy heart.

Oz wordlessly raised his mug. "If we find the assailant quickly, she may not need to be," he said. Vengarl clinked his own against it. Neither drank.

/-/

"Hey! Art!"

Artorias looked up from his lunch a little blearily. Sun was approaching, Yang in tow. Today's first exam had ended some twenty minutes ago, but the third and fourth years had another one to complete after lunch.

"Just Art?" Gough queried, though there was no real menace in his voice. Ciaran seemed indifferent to it all, as did Gil.

"Well, all of you," Yang said, "but mostly Art."

Gough chuckled. "I'm glad to know where we stand."

"We're sitting, actually," Artorias corrected. Ciaran punched him lightly on the arm, but set her fork aside and looked away from the textbook next to her plate.

"So, I was talking to Neptune and Sage and Scarlet and all, cause you know, they're my team so I talk to them a lot. Anyway we were talking – actually, I was doing most of the talking – about-"

"You take too long," Yang said. "Seriously, it took him about half an hour to get to the point when he was talking to my team."

Artorias snorted. "I can imagine." Sun scratched the back of his head awkwardly, though he still wore his usual unbothered grin.

"Here's the deal: us. Vale. A lot of drinking," Yang explained. "Tomorrow night, after our exams."

"Huh." Artorias had almost forgotten already that he'd been considering something similar. "Who's coming?"

"Seriously? Not an instant 'yes'? Don't be a dog, Art," Sun said.

"Is that racist?" Ciaran wondered out loud.

"I struggle to see why this was primarily addressed to Artorias," Gil said.

"Come on, man. We both know you won't want to come," Sun said.

"Besides," Yang said. "Sun said that the plan was to 'party like Vacuans'."

Gough, Gilderoy, and Ciaran all shared looks. "You _do_ know he's the only one of us to not grow up in Vacuo, right?" Ciaran asked.

"I'm in," Artorias said, though he knew he'd probably have to make sure that Winter and he weren't busy. "But seriously, who else is coming?"

"Just me and Neptune, from my team," Sun said. "Sage has his own thing to go to, and Scarlet was – what was it? I think he was going to train. Lame, right? But it's alright – Mercury's coming. He seems alright. Probably more talkative than Sage, actually, so that's a plus."

"And you said something about Team RWBY?"

"Mm-hmm," Yang said. "Weiss thinks that partying like Vacuans translates to partying like – and I quote – 'partying like riff-raff', but I taunted her about being stuck-up until she deigned to join us. Blake wasn't interested though, and Ruby doesn't like alcohol, thank god."

"She's had a drink before?" Gough asked, his eyes widening. "She's fifteen, isn't she?"

"Fifteen with aura," Artorias said. "Besides – did you really wait until you could legally drink before starting to drink? Does Vacuo even _have_ an age requirement?"

"Don't worry, don't worry," Yang assured them. "Our Uncle Qrow offered her a taste once. He mixed it _really_ strong to make sure she'd hate it, so she barely touched it before making up her mind. He's cool. So, how about it? Any other takers?"

"Gil, you're coming," Artorias said.

"I'm not, actually."

"I'm making this decision for you. You're coming."

"Smough is back in Vale tomorrow."

"Gil's not coming then, moving on."

"I too will-"

"Wait, wait, wait. Smough? Art, you didn't tell me Gil was going out with _Smough_ ," Sun said, cutting Gough off. "You're going out with Smough, right? I'm not getting this wrong?"

"Who's Smough?" Yang asked.

"He's my boyfriend, yes," Gil said.

"And he's my brother."

"And he's kind of a dick," Artorias finished.

"Oh. So it's not a good idea to invite him along?"

"Definitely not a good idea," Sun said. "I take it you're out too then, Gough?"

"Mm. Sorry."

"All good," Sun said. "He's your brother. Blood's thicker than water and all that, even if that blood is type-A-for-asshole. Ciaran?"

She sighed. "Sure. Why not?"

Artorias feigned fainting. "She's actually coming to a social event. By the gods – I'm not dreaming, am I?"

"Hey, she came to the dance," Yang said. "Ya big meanie."

"Yeah," Ciaran agreed, tapping him lightly on the arm. "Besides, I'd rather not be in the dorm when Gil and Smough get back."

"Actually, he's not allowed on campus," Gilderoy interjected.

"Don't ruin this for me, Gil," Artorias said, pointing an accusing finger at his leader. "Can't pull out now though, right C?"

"I guess I can't."

"Sweet." Yang nodded her approval. "Alright, I've got training in like, ten minutes-"

"Lame."

"-so I'll catch you later!"

Artorias paused, his tuna-and-mustard laden cracker halfway to his mouth. "Training? We don't have any more combat classes, do we?"

"Nah." Sun sat down next to him and swiped a bit of Artorias' food, gagging a moment later upon trying it. "What the hell?"

"Don't ask," Gil said.

Sun held up a finger to indicate that they should wait while he recovered. Finally, he said, "Her team and the other one have been training with that old guy who showed up after the Breach."

"The other team?" Ciaran queried.

"Jaune's."

"Ah."

Sun reached for some of Gough's food. Gough didn't stop him. "Guy's name is Vengarl. Apparently, he's basically Goodwitch on steroids but slightly less scary. Nora's words, not mine."

"Nora's afraid of Goodwitch?" Artorias asked, through a mouthful of food. "I didn't think Nora was capable of being afraid."

"I think even Professor Port is afraid of Goodwitch."

"Okay, C, look, Port's not bad, but he's not some kind of _god_."

"That's what I'm saying. He's mortal enough to be afraid of Goodwitch-"

"But so deific that nothing else on this world could possibly frighten him?" Gough supplied.

"Precisely."

"Nah," Sun said. "Alright then – I'm not supposed to tell anyone this, so keep it _real_ secret, right? But there's this teacher at Haven who _never_ gets angry, but when he does… oh man, like, he pretty much blows up. I bet he could scare Port _and_ Nora _and_ Goodwitch."

"…why is this supposed to be secret?" Gil asked.

Sun shrugged and ate some more of Gough's food. "He's just kinda embarrassed about it."

/-/

"Good day, Cinder."

Cinder did her very best to _not_ look surprised, she truly did. Surprise indicated a lack of foresight, and lack of foresight was a weakness. Sulyvahn was a man who would exploit any weakness he detected, she knew, but she had no idea whether she'd successfully hid her surprise. Because, truth, be told, it _did_ surprise her to find Sulyvahn in her team's dorm, sitting on a bed with Neo, playing chess.

"Did you attend the exam, Neo?" Cinder asked, keeping her voice flat and calm. Not that it was important for educational reasons, of course. It was just to keep their cover.

Neo – who notably was _not_ in her disguise – shrugged.

"You lied to me, Cinder. I don't appreciate being lied to."

"You don't always get what you want," Cinder said. "Neo, leave us."

"No," Sulyvahn said. "We'll finish this game first. It's your move."

Neo moved a rook across the board to place Sulyvahn's king in check. Sulyvahn blocked it with a knight.

"Miss Sustrai's semblance is rather remarkable, is it not? _Very_ useful indeed," Sulyvahn said.

Emerald hadn't mentioned that he'd learned of her semblance. "What do you want with the painting?"

There was a flurry of movement on the chess board. With one rook keeping Sulyvahn's remaining knight busy, she used her other rook to blitz through his pawns, leaving the board open for her own to advance. Sulyvahn removed the offending piece from the board with a bishop, but the damage was already done. He nodded his approval to Neo, who smiled innocently, capturing that same bishop with her queen.

"My goals are aligned with Salem's," Sulyvahn said at last.

"The relic?"

Sulyvahn neither confirmed nor denied it. There was another long pause as he and Neo made their moves. After a flurry of moves, Neo had three pawns and most of her stronger pieces, while Sulyvahn was down to his king, queen, and one bishop. It wasn't long before even those were lost to him, and Neo placed his king in checkmate.

"Well played," he said. He then turned back to address Cinder. "With a semblance like hers, it would be a waste to kill her. Don't have her follow me." For good measure, Neo dramatically knocked Sulyvahn's king from the bed to the floor.

"Are you backing down?" Cinder taunted. "I thought you would send your pet."

He stood and strode towards her. "You've not ruined me just yet. Although, if you'd prefer, I could have her kill Mercury. It'd be entirely meaningless, of course. She exists to keep you obedient. This is close enough."

Cinder's eyes flashed amber. "Obedient?" She too stepped closer to him, invading his personal space. He did not back down. "If you truly want what Salem wants, there is no need to make me obedientto _you_."

"You're right," he acquiesced, though he hardly seemed sincere. "It won't be an issue, then, for Miss Sustrai to meet me in my quarters on Saturday morning, will it?"

Cinder pursed her lips. "It won't be."

Sulyvahn nodded, seemingly satisfied, and tried to push past Cinder to the door. But when she raised her hand, he halted. "It's not that simple, of course," she said. "You can't push without getting shoved back a little."

"Yet that is the simplest concept of all," Sulyvahn said. "An eye for an eye. A push for a shove. I believe such ideas might be found in a book called _Morality for Dummies_. I take what I want, Cinder. Still, I understand. A favour? Is that what you want?"

"I want to know why you need _me_."

Sulyvahn paused, and his eyes narrowed at her. His face contorted strangely as he thought. He was surprisingly expressive with his eyebrows, she found, when he wasn't actively trying to keep his face blank. She got the impression that he was choosing his words very, _very_ carefully, or perhaps recalling a lesson half-forgotten.

Then he smiled wryly, and his eyes lit up. "Never trust a fire," he said. "There's no way of proving history. What of the battle of Vacuo? What wounded the king of Mantle? Was it a bolt of golden lightning, or was it a knight in blue? Did the Father of Giants march on the broken battlements of Old Oasis wielding a sword of sputtering flame and a sceptre woven with grass? Did bodies really fall from the sky? Were the souls of the slain whisked away by a hunched figure in a red hood? None can say for sure. It is not through battle and conquest that history comes into the world, Cinder. It is through poem and kenning and song."

"For a religious man, you're surprisingly cynical."

"But that's what religion is all about. Words are what remain when the deeds are done," he continued. "Words can shatter faith. Words can start wars. Words can inspire hope or dread, topple walls or even raise the dead. The King of Words became the King of Everything because writing history and making history are but a page apart." He shook himself. "Of course, the deeds need to be done first."

"What deed is it you want me to do, then?"

"Who do you think to be the King of Words?"

She frowned. "Ozpin?"

He chuckled. Even Neo laughed, her mouth agape and her chest heaving, though no sound emerged. "Aye," he said. "I suppose. For now, what's most important is that you become the Fall Maiden. And I was serious about that favour. If you require my assistance with… well, with the Maiden, I'd be happy to help – within reason, of course."

"Noted," Cinder said dryly, gesturing for the door.

/-/

"One in the cockpit, one in the hold. I'll handle the hangar." Winter passed Artorias a pair of tiny orbs, each only slighter larger than a grain of rice.

"These are _cameras?_ " Artorias asked. "They're tiny!"

"It's new tech Atlas has been working on. You can use your aura to turn it on and activate the adhesive."

"The adhesive? Who the hell makes aura-activated _adhesive_?"

She smirked. "What can I say? Atlas tech is top-of-the-line. You can't turn them off, though. There's a little black dot to indicate the front."

"Can't turn it off? Atlas tech, everybody."

"You shouldn't need to. We solved the problem by giving it an absurd battery life for its size. It should last a month, give or take a few days."

"A month?! My scroll only lasts – what, two days at most? How the hell did they cram enough dust into this thing for a month?"

"I honestly don't know. The head of the military's research and development _is_ a certified genius." She clapped him on the shoulder with her free hand. "Try to put it somewhere it won't be noticed. It's small, but not invisible."

"I'm not a complete idiot, you know," he muttered, boarding the Bullhead.

Looking through the door to the cockpit and out the windshield, he could see her launching herself atop a stack of shipping containers with a glyph, then putting down a camera.

"Show-off," he muttered. He glanced around the cargo-hold; there were eight seats against the walls for passengers along with handles for standing passengers to hold on to. A first-aid kit hung from the wall separating the hold from the cockpit. It seemed as good a place as any – perhaps on the white cross? The camera was more-or-less the same colour, and it could easily be mistaken for lint.

He shrugged and walked over to it, peering closely at the camera. There was little black dot on the front, Winter had said. Little was an understatement. The thing was already damn tiny. But he saw what he thought to be the dot she'd spoken of, and pushed the camera onto the first-aid kit, channelling a little aura to activate it.

It stuck to his thumb.

He swore under his breath and carefully pried it off, making sure not to remove the camera from its intended position.

Next was the cockpit. There were two seats, one for the pilot and the other for the co-pilot, though Bullheads were simple enough to fly that the co-pilot didn't need to do anything. Artorias chose to put the camera atop the doorframe so that it looked out through the windshield and could see the back of the pilot's head. This time, he was more careful about how he placed the camera and successfully fixed it in position without it sticking to his hand.

He disembarked from the Bullhead. Winter was already done, tapping her foot impatiently. "You really like showing off how much faster you are, right?"

"Sorry to bruise your fragile ego," she said. "We split up. There are two places left to check." She handed him a slip of paper with an address on it, then headed for the exit. "You're taking the weapons warehouse."

"The likely-abandoned weapons warehouse… on the other side of town. Nice."

"Across the river is not the same as on the other side of town. Stop whinging."

"You're only going… what? Four blocks, right?"

"I never said mine was any further. You always complain about the littlest things. It's a wonder you ever get anything done."

"What can I say? I've turned insolence into an art form."

Winter looked to the sky and let out a long-suffering sigh. Then, she pulled her scroll from her pocket. "Keep the line open," she said. "Not that I want to hear you whinge more, but-"

"Oh, there'll be no more whinging."

"I seriously doubt that."

"No, I'm in a good non-whinge mood. We're going drinking tomorrow, so-"

"We?"

Oh. _Oh._ A grin crossed Artorias' features.

/-/

The next afternoon, after all the exams were over, Gough found himself at the Vale airdock, watching for his brother. With the tournament, the festival's main highlight, due to open in only two days' time, it was a busy place. But Smough was still easy to spot through the crowd, being so tall. "Smough!" Gough called.

Smough turned away from the luggage carousel for a moment, and a smile spread across his face as he saw Gough. He offered a wave, grabbed his suitcase, then pushed through the crowd towards his brother.

There was certainly a lot of bad history between them, thought Gough. But it was all forgotten as they pulled each other into a fierce hug. They were just a pair of brothers who'd been apart for too long. "You're looking well," Smough said. "Studying hard?"

"Studying enough," Gough said. "You've gained weight, Smough."

"Hmm? Ha!" Smough slung an arm around Gough's shoulders and pulled him close once more. "Cheeky little bastard," he said, grinning.

Gough couldn't help but smile back.

"Is Gil…?"

"He's back at Beacon. Thought he'd give us a chance to catch up."

"Good, good. And I need to check in, anyway." He picked up his luggage again. "Just need to grab my hammer. Customs was being pissy about it."

They chatted idly as they walked. Gough asked about Smough's work – apparently, he'd still been able to find plenty, despite his lack of official qualifications. Gough talked about the teachers at Beacon, though mostly Professor Port. His impression of the aging teacher wasn't very good, but his exaggerated nonsense rambling elicited a hearty laugh from his older brother. Neither spoke of the half-drunken phone call from months prior.

"Actually, I bumped into Professor Brim before I left," Smough said, shoving his luggage and hammer unceremoniously into the boot of a taxi. The driver glanced back nervously at the two massive men as they got into the back of the vehicle.

"Oh? What did he say?"

"Said he was impressed with how I handled the expulsion. He's offered to teach me over the winter break. Said it'd count as my fourth year."

"He can do that?"

"It's Vacuo. He can do what he wants." Smough tried to shrug, but the movement was impeded by the low ceiling of the taxi. "I'd still need one of the headmasters to sign my papers for it to be official, and he said he hasn't talked to June about it yet. But even if she ends up being a biased bitch about it, there are still three other headmasters I could talk to about it, right?"

"You could be a licensed Hunter? That's wonderful, Smough. I'm happy for you."

"Mm-hmm." Smough smiled. "No more skulking around looking for work. I could just walk right into an academy and use the job board. Not to mention I'd have access to academy weapon forges, kingdom-funded Bullheads, and partial citizenship in all the kingdoms." The taxi pulled up outside the hotel. Smough passed some cash to the driver and they squeezed themselves out of the vehicle. "And most importantly – I get a little pride back."

It was hardly like Smough was lacking in pride, but Gough understood what he meant. "You're going to take his offer, right?"

"Of course." Smough lifted his suitcase and hammer from the boot, then Gough closed it. "Best part is that he can waive the practical stuff. Just need to catch up on the theory and I'm good to go."

"The boring stuff?"

"The boring stuff," Smough agreed, "but at least it'll only be over one winter instead of spread out across a whole year."

"That sounds like a lot of work."

"Your big brother's smarter than he looks, little Gough. And it won't be the first time."

"I'm taller than you."

"Are not," Smough scoffed, making his way to reception. "There should be a room booked under Smough Iris," he said.

"Of course, sir," said the receptionist, a comparatively small man with blue eyes and a nametag that dubbed him 'Glen'. Glen typed the name into the system. "The room's been paid for. I just need some identification."

"Oh, right, shit." Smough dug through his pockets for his scroll, then held it to the terminal. It began to buzz not a moment after it had scanned. Someone was calling him. "I'd better take this," he said.

"Third floor," Glen said. "Room twelve. It's registered to your scroll."

"Thanks. Could you hold this for a second, Gough?" Smough said, passing his hammer.

"Got it."

Smough answered his scroll as they made their way to the elevator. "Smough Iris speaking."

There was a moment where Gough could hear only a faint chatter from the scroll's speaker. Then Smough said, "Stop fucking calling me!"

/-/

"You mean to tell me you invited us out with no idea where to go?" Artorias asked, raising an eyebrow.

Weiss sighed. She was no longer entirely sure why she'd agreed to come. Yang was usually pretty organised, all things considered, but it still wasn't a surprise that her plans hadn't really gone any further 'party'. In Yang's defence, though, it had been Sun's idea at first, so the burden of responsibility should have been on _his_ shoulders.

Still, she thought, scowling a little as the Bullhead lurched unexpectedly, Yang should have known better than to leave it to Sun.

"Hey, I still don't know Vale like a local." Sun looked pointedly at Yang.

"I'm from Patch."

"And I haven't lived there in what? Three years? I don't know which places are still good," Artorias said.

"Huh. I guess not." Sun reclined in his seat. "But you _did_ have a few nights on the town, right? Come on. The 'good spots' should still be good."

Yang smiled devilishly. "We could drop by Junior's," she suggested.

Mercury frowned. "You're grinning. That can't be a good thing. What did you do to... what's his name? Junior?"

"He really hates us," Artorias explained. "Yang beat him up once. It's not a good idea. There was a club near the river that never checked ID that I went to once or twice, but ID isn't an issue for us, right?"

"What kind of a name is Junior anyway?" Mercury wondered. Everyone ignored him.

"Not a fan of that idea," Yang said. Her grin grew wider, and she winked obnoxiously. "Besides - that'd be the _real_ Junior's." Weiss stared at her blankly, as did everyone else. "You know? Like, everyone there would be really young?" More blank stares. "No takers? Not even you, Art?"

"Sorry."

"I got it," Ciaran said quietly.

"Thank god."

"I didn't think it was very good, though."

"Lame."

"What did you used to do, Yang?" Neptune asked.

"Hmm? Oh, there's a liquor store on Patch. One of the employees was super old and half-blind and never checked our IDs anyway, so we bought drinks when it was his shift. We'd just sneak out to the old airbase on Patch, get wasted, sober up a little, then head home."

"We are _not_ going all the way out to Patch tonight," Weiss said. There were nods of agreement from Sun, Neptune, and Ciaran. Mercury met the statement with indifference.

"And that worked?" Artorias asked, addressing Yang still. "Mum was on my case whenever I had more than a drop."

Yang shrugged. "I was careful. Dad never noticed. Uncle Qrow did, of course, but he was cool about it."

"Isn't he the one who put Ruby off drinking entirely?" Ciaran asked.

"Yeah, but that's Ruby. I'm Yang," Yang said, as though it explained everything. "There's a difference."

Weiss couldn't disagree. While there were certainly times that they seemed carbon copies of each other, their differences were still often on display. While Yang was the protective sort, more responsible than she let on but still playful and childish at heart, Ruby was naïve and idealistic but still driven to achieve whatever goal she set herself.

With a shudder, the Bullhead touched down at the Vale airdock. They all departed, some throwing back a 'thanks' to the pilot as they left.

"Seriously though," Neptune said. "We need to know where we're going."

"There's still the strip of bars and clubs along the riverside," Yang said. "At least one of them oughta be good."

"We don't have too high standards, do we?" Sun asked. "Cheap drinks, a corner quiet enough to talk, and a dancefloor. Shouldn't be too hard, right?"

"You'd be surprised," Mercury muttered.

As it turned out, Sun was in the right: it wasn't too hard. They dropped by only two bars before they found one they found acceptable – a place called _Fat Goliath_. None of them had been there before, but it wasn't bad, even by Weiss' standards. The bartender, a Mistrali boy who couldn't be much older than them, smiled and nodded to them as they entered. It was clearly a club before it was a bar, with music playing loudly from speakers situated all throughout the building, but away from the dancefloor it wasn't too overpowering. Being a Wednesday night, it wasn't very busy, though there were still a fair few groups of patrons huddled around their respective tables.

They claimed a table in the corner. "I'll get the first round," Sun said. "Who wants what?"

"Rum-and-cola," Mercury said.

"Neat scotch," Ciaran said.

"Girl's got class. Vodka-cranberry," Neptune said.

"Really, dude?" Yang asked. "Vodka-cranberry? Really?"

"Hey, I'm allowed to drink whatever I want."

"Pfft. Strawberry Sunrise."

"With an umbrella," Artorias added. "Don't forget the umbrella."

"Hell yeah." Yang leaned back in her seat, lacing her fingers behind her head.

"Scotch on the rocks for me, by the way," Artorias said.

"Got it. Weiss?"

Weiss felt a little caught in the spotlight. "They don't serve wine here, do they?"

"Probably not," Sun said. "And if they do, it's probably not very good."

Weiss hesitated. Though she'd had a little wine at family functions in the past, it was never more than a sip. Still, she knew enough from that alone to know that she didn't mind the taste of wine. Liquor, however, was foreign to her.

"You've never had a drink, have you?" Artorias asked.

"What? I have too!"

"What do tequila, vodka, and rum taste like?" Mercury asked.

"I don't know how to describe them."

"Then you've clearly never tried them," Yang said. "Rum burns, vodka tastes like hard labour, and tequila tastes like death."

"It's _nice_ death, though," Neptune said.

"Well, yeah, otherwise nobody would ever drink it."

"Whiskey's a safe start," Ciaran advised. "Either water it down or mix it with cola."

Weiss looked to Yang for confirmation. The blonde shrugged, then nodded. "Beer's a lighter drink, but I doubt you'd enjoy it. Watered down whiskey won't kill you, though. But still, pace yourself."

"I can be responsible."

"With the first drink," Neptune said. "It gets harder after that."

Weiss nodded. "To be forewarned is to be forearmed, I guess. Whiskey it is."

"Sure thing," Sun said. "Can someone help carry?"

"I'll come." Neptune pushed himself up, and the two of them made their way to the bar.

Yang plonked herself right down next to Weiss. "Alright, we're all for having a good time, but _no_ over-drinking, you hear me?"

It took Weiss a moment to realise that Yang was talking more to her than anyone else. "Wait, what?"

"I'm not going to haul you back to Beacon passed out."

"And your sister would kill me if you got wasted on my watch," Artorias added.

"I can handle myself. Don't worry," Weiss said. "And what do you mean, Winter would kill _you_? Winter would kill _me!_ "

"We'll take her together. Two-on-one, comrades in arms. Come on, she can't kill us both!"

"I'll help too," Mercury offered.

"That's the spirit!" Artorias cheered.

"That's not the- you know what? Never mind." Weiss crossed her arms. "It's not like she knows I'm drinking tonight."

Artorias coughed.

"She does?"

"I may have mentioned it." Why he and Winter were spending so much time together, Weiss didn't know. When she'd asked her sister, she'd only been told that it was classified.

Ciaran and Yang shared a glance. "We're doomed," Yang said. Ciaran nodded her agreement.

Sun and Neptune came back, drinks in hand. "Hold up, I've already forgotten who gets what."

"Rum here."

"Umbrella here."

"The scotches for the classy older students," Artorias said.

Weiss snorted. "Classy? You? Please. I've seen more class in a communist manifesto."

"Nice one," Ciaran said, the only other person who seemed to get her joke, "but don't lump me in with him."

"Sorry."

"Alrighty then," Sun said, passing Weiss her drink and taking a seat of his own. "A toast?"

"Heated bread," Yang and Artorias said together. Grins spread across both their faces, and they hi-fived over the terrible, terrible pun.

"Shush," Ciaran said. "You're both as bad as each other. To another semester gone?"

It was as good as anything to drink to. "To another semester gone!"

/-/

"I'm kinda surprised Neptune's still alive," Artorias said. He was on – what? His fifth? Sixth drink? He'd lost count. The liquor was hitting him really hard now, either way – it'd been hitting him pretty hard for a while, actually – and it took a lot of concentration to form complete sentences.

"Meaning?" Weiss was the only other one still at the table. The others were dancing. Sun and Ciaran were doing a clumsy waltz-tango-something-or-other, laughing as they tripped over each other, Mercury looked like he wanted to die as a drunk Yang bounced him around the dance floor, and Neptune was awkwardly shuffling alongside them, though he still seemed to be enjoying himself.

"Well, I told Winter, see, I told her that you and Neptune may or may not be an item."

"Oh." Weiss sipped at her drink. "We're not."

"You're not? I mean, I missed a lot at the dance, but I heard that you and he shared a private dance." He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"You look ridiculous," Weiss scoffed.

"I try very hard."

"Don't get me wrong, I like Neptune," Weiss said slowly. "It's just… I mean, I thought he was kinda cute, I guess. Actually, really cute. But, l – hold on." She had a bit more to drink.

"Easy there."

"I know my limits," she scolded, clearly lying. "Neptune just isn't want I'm looking for. Gah, I explained it _way_ better when I was talking with him about it."

"Take your time."

"Hmm." She drank again. "I want to do a lot of things. I want the Schnee family name to not be… to be good again – oh, you know what I mean, right?"

"I think so?"

"Good enough for me. I want that, and I want to be a Huntress, and I want a team who loves me and I can love back. You know? And a boyfriend never really factored into it, so when I met Neptune I had to think about that. And it was kinda like, well, _if_ we were to date, I decided that that responsibility would be subservient to all the _other_ responsibilities I care about, you know?"

It took Artorias a moment to process it. "I think I get it, yeah."

"Don't get me wrong, Neptune's a good guy. He's fun to hang out with, and _god_ , he's attractive. Blue hair? Sidetracked, sidetracked. Basically, I like him, and I appreciate how good he looks, but he's not the one for me, and now's not the time for it anyway. You get what I'm saying, right?"

"Makes sense," Artorias said. "Okay, but if Winter tries to kill him-"

She shrugged. "I won't stop her. It was fun to see her beat _you_ up."

"Hey!"

"No offence."

"Plenty taken." She drained her current drink – Artorias had no idea how many she'd already had, nor what was in this one – and coughed a little as it went down. "Okay, but Winter threw a _lot_ of weight into that slap. There's some history there, right?"

Artorias choked on his scotch. "History?"

"Who's got history?" Yang asked, plonking herself down in the seat next to him.

"Nobody's got history!"

"It came out wrong; I didn't mean to imply you'd slept with her – god no, she could do _way_ better than you."

"I feel like I'm missing something," Yang said.

"Hey, I'm a very… I'm a reasonably- you know what? Fine." He slumped down in his chair. "What happened to Mercury?"

"He's getting me another drink."

"Is that really a good idea?" Weiss wondered.

"Okay, I know you two are under the table, but really? Really? I'm still, like… I can go a few more."

"Yeah. Clearly." Artorias shook himself and massaged his temples, trying to restore a little clarity to his world. "Wait, Mercury's getting you another drink? He's not _into_ you, is he?"

"If that's what counts as a date in your world, you need some higher standards, Wolfy."

"Well, no, but buying drinks for someone is _part_ of it."

"Both of you can rest assured he's using it as a bribe to make me _stop_ dancing with him. That's it."

"Did I ask?" Weiss asked.

"No need to be rude."

"No, seriously, I don't remember if I asked."

Artorias and Yang shared a glance. "Yeah… I think we should cut you off."

Weiss nodded, looking down at her empty glass. "You're probably right," she muttered. But then Mercury arrived with more drinks than just for himself and Yang. "Thanks, Merc," Weiss muttered, taking the offered drink.

"Not a problem," he said, handing Yang another Strawberry Sunrise and Artorias a glass of liquor – it smelled like cinnamon. "What did I miss?" Mercury asked.

"Dunno," Artorias said. "Poking fun at you and Yang, I think."

"Oh, ha ha," Yang drawled. "You and Weiss were talking about history. I think we should go back to that."

"I'm hooked on the conversation already," Mercury muttered.

"Nah, not _history_ history," Yang clarified. "Like, _history_. You get what I mean?"

"Ah. I see."

"There's no history there, though!" Artorias objected.

"With whom?" Weiss asked. "Oh. Right. Go on."

"Hang on, I'm missing something. Who is it?" Yang asked.

"Look, I'm just proud to say Winter finds me 'insufferable'. Alright? If that's history, sure, whatever. But, I mean, we're still good friends." He leaned in closer. "Don't tell her I said this, but she's also _really cool._ "

"She'll be glad to hear it," Weiss said smugly.

Mercury raised an eyebrow. "Winter? As in Schnee? She kicked your ass though, didn't she?"

"Like I said. Insufferable." Artorias raised his glass in mocking toast, then drank. He should have expected it given the smell, but he was surprised to find it was fireball whiskey, burning and tingling pleasantly as it went down.

"Here's to- what are you doing?" Yang asked, as Artorias fished his scroll from his pocket.

"Calling someone, duh."

"No, no," Weiss muttered. "Why would you – don't do it, Zwei. Don't do it."

"Shush, I'm not calling Winter." He flicked through to contacts, then scrolled down to 'Q'. "I'm calling my– wait, who's Zwei?"

"Where's Zwei?"

"I swear you said- nevermind. I'm calling my ex."

Yang winced. "That's never a good move, Wolfy."

"Okay, look, things were pretty great for a while- hey!" Weiss snatched his scroll from his hands. "That's not fair."

"Who named these 'Q' people anyway? Your contacts list looks like a Bullhead crashed into it. You're not getting this back until you sober– oh hey look I've got a call," she said, the scroll buzzing in her hand.

"That's not your scroll!" Artorias said, even as Weiss answered the call anyway.

" _Artorias, we've got an emer- oh. Hello, Weiss,"_ said Winter Schnee.

* * *

 **I think I've said this before, but for those unaware, I intend to take a hiatus once TFI reaches the end of V3. The main reason is that I want to know what Watts, Hazel, and Lionheart are capable of and what Raven's bandit tribe is like before heading into V4. Hopefully, canon V5 will shed some light on these topics.**

 **The good news is that I'll be writing something else in that hiatus, but I'm not yet sure what. These are the options:**

 _ **The Gospel of Lapp**_ **\- Remnant's ancient history as told by Patches himself, from 'Let there be light' to 'The Red Hood cometh'.**

 **OR**

 _ **Special Beings Have Special Souls -**_ **A Great War-era fic following Vengarl from his very first battle all the way through to the treaty of Vytal.**

 **Let me know which one you'd prefer to see through reviews, PMs, or through the poll on my profile. Whichever one I end up writing will probably be accompanied by some omakes (thanks pancake800 for the suggestion).**

 **Hopefully I'll be on time next chapter ( _I'm sorry!)._**

 **Next chapter - September 15th.**


	26. Chapter 25: Truths & Half-truths

**Thanks to everyone giving feedback and suggestions regarding _Special Beings_ and _The Gospel of Lapp_. I did consider (and am still considering, in fact) writing both at the same time. It all depends on how long a break I take from _TFI_ and how much time I can devote to writing over the Christmas break.**

 **We'll see, I guess. If I don't write both during this upcoming hiatus, I'll save the other for a rainy day anyway.**

* * *

 _This one's had all of eternity to do nothing but wait, and how has he spent it? Training, body and mind both. As though it's worth something, the fool. Sometimes I wonder if that's why he's here, as the last line of defence. Well, the last line worth talking about. Perhaps they knew his will would never be broken. He's glad to be here. Why, you showing up? It'll make his day. A fight worth his time._

 _Me? I couldn't wait like that - obviously._

 _There's one thing I could never forget, you know. I've lost my name. But there's still an itch that I_ know _needs to be scratched. I can't ignore it. I can't forget it._

 _Give him a good kick from me, would you?_

/-/

"That's great news!" Gilderoy said. "Honestly, though? I thought Brim hated you."

Smough snorted. "Brim doesn't care enough to hate anyone." He shoved a forkful of steak into his mouth, and shortly after some small noises of appreciation could be heard.

"He cares enough to teach you though."

"Mm-hmm. Wasted talent, he called it."

"You don't know how happy I am for you," Gilderoy said. He raised his wine glass and clinked it against Smough's.

"Thanks, Gil." He was grinning from ear to ear. "And how about you? How's Beacon treated you?"

"Somehow, it's even more stressful than Vacuo."

"Oh – the White Fang? They're calling it 'the Breach', right?"

"No, no, we were on a mission at the time." And the less said about that, the better. Boring until it wasn't, and after that it had just been plain horrible.

"So? What's the problem with Beacon then?"

Gilderoy raised a finger, indicating that Smough should wait while he ate his fish. "Well," he said, "there's the teachers."

"Gough mentioned one of the professors – Port, I think. Sounded like a _real_ riot."

"Oh yeah, him. Mixed opinions there – Ciaran thinks he's great, the rest of us…"

"Too long-winded?"

"Exactly. Port's not the issue, though. Professor Ozpin's the weird one. He's been asking me weird questions these past few weeks."

"Like?"

"Do I know what 'Operation Mirrah' is? Hell no. Do I write letters? Why would I ever? Do I know the precise strategies used in the Great War?"

"Do you?"

"On that last one? I've been doing a bit of reading on pre-war Mistral recently, but no, I didn't have _any_ idea."

"And he never explained why?"

"He said that 'why' didn't have to matter." Gilderoy shrugged, stabbing at his fish with his fork. "It doesn't really matter I guess, it's just… strange."

"Huh." He shovelled more steak into his mouth, then put his cutlery down, though his plate was not yet empty. "I'll be honest, I didn't tell Gough everything. It's not just a headmaster's signature I need."

/-/

" _How are you feeling, Weiss?"_

"Oh, you know… good." She was doing her best not to seem drunk; Artorias didn't need to be a mind reader to realise that. Whether she was succeeding, however…

Yeah, he was pretty sure she wasn't.

" _I'm sure you are."_ Winter seemed almost bemused. _"Is your teammate there?"_

Weiss ignored the 'shushing' signal Yang was giving her. "Yes! Yang's here."

" _Put her on for a moment."_

Yang shot a glare at Weiss, but accepted the scroll. "Uh… hey, Miss Schnee. Hi."

From where he was sitting, Artorias couldn't see the screen too well. No words passed between Yang and Winter, but after a moment understanding seemed to come over the blonde, and she gave a single sharp nod.

Weiss poked her head over Yang's shoulder. "Did I miss something?"

" _Stay safe, Weiss. I need to speak with Artorias."_

"Oh yeah… it's your scroll."

"Mm-hmm. Won't be a moment." Yang passed him back his scroll, then he stood, taking his drink with him and stumbling a little through a door to the balcony overlooking the river. "Something about an emergency?"

" _How sober are you?"_

"Still functional." He leaned his back against the railing and sipped at his drink.

Winter narrowed her eyes, but didn't comment on it. _"Just look at this,"_ she said. The video changed to feed of the Bullhead they'd bugged the previous night, specifically the feed from the cargo hold. For a few seconds, everything was still. Then, a figure passed close by the camera, too quickly to see anything useful – a shoulder garbed in black leather and the vague profile of a hairless chin.

"So our mystery man's back." Artorias shrugged. "What's the deal?"

" _Keep watching."_

After another moment, the camera moved and was held up to someone's face. It was too close to make out any distinct features save for the man's eye: brown and beady, and narrowed at the camera. He was examining the camera, Artorias realised – or the first-aid kit it was attached to, but that seemed unlikely. It wasn't much longer before the camera was dropped, and it landed face-down on the floor of the cargo hold.

" _I'll jump the footage forwards,"_ Winter said.

The camera was picked up again, but it was no longer trained on the man's eye. Now, it looked at a piece of paper, with a short message written on it: _Hello friend! Meet here ASAP._

"That's a trap," Artorias said, without hesitation. "No audio?"

" _The cameras don't have mics,"_ she explained.

"The wonders of Atlas tech," he muttered.

" _What's important is that our mystery man_ knows _they don't transmit audio."_

"Think he's got inside knowledge?"

" _That's what I was implying, yes."_

Artorias rolled his eyes, then took another sip of his drink. "What's the plan?"

" _How far are you from the hangar?"_

He took a second to 'um' and 'ah' about it before responding. "Fifteen-minute walk. More-or-less."

" _I'm on my way into Vale. You're the bait."_

"Alrighty then."

Winter seemed stunned. _"You're okay with that?"_

"Shit, I get a say this time?"

" _Well, no. But I expected whinging."_

"Ha. I'll say my goodbyes, then meet you there," he said. Before she could respond, he ended the call. He let out a long sigh, then drained his drink. The fireball whiskey tickled the back of his throat on the way down, strangely soothing and comforting. He looked at his scroll again, now displaying the contacts list once more.

It must have been the drink that reminded him; sure, he'd had a few moments of melancholy over the past few weeks, but nothing brought Quelana to mind quite like cinnamon and whiskey. He checked the time. It was only nine o'clock. All her classes and assessment would be over by now too; perhaps she too was celebrating. Maybe she was with her sisters, or her team, or both.

"Aren't you cold?" Artorias looked up. Ciaran had come out to join him, hugging herself for warmth.

"Well, Winter _did_ call."

"I don't even know what to say to that." She leaned against the railing next to him as he pocketed his scroll. "Classified?"

He nodded. "Classified. I have to go."

"You've not yet."

"Yet," he agreed.

"Well," she said, "I suppose you have a duty."

"Something of the sort."

She snorted. "Apathy suits you like no-one else."

"Apathy?"

"When was the last time you actually cared for something?" she asked. "Half the time it's almost as if you're along for the ride and not much else."

"What about this?" he asked, gesturing around the bar. "Am I here just for the sake of it?"

"You're here to get drunk," she quipped. But her demeanour shifted quickly, and soon after she sighed. "I've only seen you honestly care about two things: your father and Smough. You got… angry. It was strange to see."

"Everyone gets angry. Such is life."

"But you never go the other way. You don't love easily, Arty."

That stung. He stuttered for a few seconds before any words of real meaning emerged. "I'd give my life for you, or Gough – fuck, even Gil. If that's not love-"

"You'd give your life for a ham and mustard sandwich, if it came to it," she scoffed.

"That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" She shook her head.

A cold wind blew, and a chill ran across his neck. Ciaran shivered a little, and sidled closer to him for warmth. He dismissed the green eyes lingering at the back of his thoughts. After a moment's deliberation, he unpinned his cloak and shrugged it off, wrapping it around Ciaran's shoulders like a shawl. She didn't object. "I have to go," he muttered, pushing away from the railing. "Let the others know?"

There was an audible sigh behind him. "Sure," she said.

/-/

"Professor Brim won't help me unless I get written approval from Artorias, Team Kitetail, and Team Indigo."

Gilderoy took a moment to place the names. Team Kitetail was the younger team that Quelaan had been part of, he remembered, but Team Indigo… he couldn't remember. "Why not tell Gough?"

"I want someone to put in a word for me with the mutt."

"Gough would, if you asked. And if you want his help, you'll have to stop referring to him as 'mutt'."

"Force of habit. He wouldn't listen to Gough, though – not about me."

"Then why do you think he'd listen to me?"

" _Because_ you fight. If he sees this as a step to some form of reconciliation-"

"He holds a pretty mean grudge when he wants to."

He gritted his teeth. "Look, I'm not an idiot. I know I need to grovel, at least for now. I've _already_ grovelled. I spoke to Quelaan before leaving for Vale."

"And?"

"She's using it as an excuse to take up tormenting me again – prank calls." He patted his scroll in his pocket. "I turned it off for tonight. But she said if her _dear friend_ Artorias signs, so will she."

"She holds him in high esteem."

"No shit."

Gilderoy tilted his head, turning over the response in his head. There was something about how he'd said that… "You're jealous, aren't you?"

Smough hesitated for a moment, but then shook his head. "No," he said. "I'm not."

Gilderoy waved it off. "Alright, fine. But she didn't shout you down on principle?"

"You sound disappointed."

"No. Just surprised."

"She's got a heart like Gough and a tongue like Artorias," he muttered. "Too kind when it counts, but gods she's a pain otherwise."

"Do you regret what you did to her?"

Smough sighed, then picked up his cutlery and resumed eating again. "I regret the consequences," he said, between mouthfuls of food. "And I know I took things too far, but no, I don't regret it."

"I'm getting mixed messages."

"Fuck me. It's complicated, alright?" He put his cutlery back down, then swore again. "I lie to Gough about plenty of shit," he said. "Can't lie to you, though. Sometimes I want to."

"Have you ever?"

"I don't have a perfect memory, Gil. Maybe. Nothing important springs to mind." He dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. "What's Gough told you about our childhood? Before Mum and Dad were killed?"

"He doesn't talk about it."

"Probably doesn't remember it too well. He was four." Smough took a big gulp of red wine. "We were part of one of those nomadic groups around the desert. You know the type – self-righteous, but complete assholes, living by their own rules and fuck the rest of us, even when they come to us." He sighed. "Truth be told, I don't remember much either. Don't remember what our parents' roles in the tribe were. I kinda remember what Mum looked like, but not Dad. Doesn't matter – that's not the point. But I remember one asshole pretty clearly. A small guy. Looked like a weasel – not a faunus, mind, he just looked like a fucking ferret."

"Those are different animals."

"Yeah, but they look about the same. You know what I mean, right? Anyway, he was one of the leaders around the tribe – we had a council of sorts, I think. Might have been called a tribunal or something. Fuck if I know. We left pretty quickly after Mum and Dad died."

Gilderoy glanced around. The restaurant wasn't particularly crowded, and there weren't many people close by, but still – murder was hardly a meal-time topic. Smough soldiered on anyway.

"When Gough called to talk about it, I just went with whatever he said. I think he thinks I saw them murdered. That's the story I always fed him, anyway. It was easier. I told him I saw the murder, but that I was fine. I was over it. I didn't want to dwell."

"And that's a lie?"

"Pretty much all of it, yeah." He sighed, and one hand fidgeted with his pocket. "If ever there was a time for you to let me have a smoke-"

"It's also the _restaurant_ not allowing you to smoke."

"Course not. Fucking Vale," he muttered. "Mum and Dad weren't murdered. They were executed. Don't know the crime. Might not have even been one. Maybe it was just for the hell of it. Maybe the weasel-man set them up." He shrugged. "He was the executioner though, and he was smiling the whole damn time. It was… not quick. I don't know if he hated them, or if he just enjoyed causing pain. Might have been both." He sighed, and ran a hand through his beard. "I've only ever been truly afraid twice in my life. That was the first time. And before I took Gough and ran away to Old Oasis, I repaid the favour."

"You killed him?" Gilderoy leaned over the table, his brow creased with worry. "The executioner?"

"No. I just broke him."

Gilderoy was silent for a time. After a moment's pause (and finishing his glass of wine), Smough went back to eating as though nothing had happened. "I didn't want Gough to know, but I won't lie to you."

"But the news article-"

"Think some nomads wouldn't lie about capital punishment? It's frowned upon – even in Vacuo. There's no way they'd tell some tabloid the truth of the matter." He shrugged. "I know I don't exactly bring people joy. It's not really my _thing_ , and I don't have any real desire to change that. But this Huntsman thing? It's worth apologising over, at the very least. I can make this work."

Gilderoy gave a little half-smile. "I enjoy your company."

Smough snorted. "We'd really struggle otherwise." He shook his head, letting a few faint chuckles escape, then returned to his food.

There were a few moment's silence, punctuated only by the sound of knives and forks clinking against each other. Then, Gilderoy said, " _You_ talk to Artorias, alright?"

"I hope there's more to the plan than that."

"We'll find him when he's in a good mood. I'll be with you, and we'll talk in private."

Smough frowned and his brow creased. "When you say talk-"

"We're not beating it out of him."

"I'm kidding. You know I'm kidding? But if you're on board with that…"

"Smough, no."

Smough snorted with poorly controlled laughter.

/-/

"Half an hour? Really?"

"Okay, first of all, never trust a drunk man to estimate _anything_ , or to walk _anywhere,_ " Artorias said, finding Winter just around the corner from the hangar, "and secondly, I think I said fifteen- _ish_ minutes." To be fair, walking was a great way to work off drunkenness, especially for those with aura. At this point, he just felt vaguely unwell and was more placebo-drunk than anything.

She frowned. "You didn't get mugged, did you?"

"What? Why the- Winter, I have a _weapon_. A _big_ weapon. I can handle muggers."

She gave him a quizzical look, her eyes flicking to his shoulder for some reason, then said, "Fine." She pulled out her scroll. "Mute the speakers and keep it in your pocket. I'll listen in. If it's safe, I'll join you." A second later, his own scroll buzzed again.

"So, if it's a trap – and it's totally a trap – you'll bail me out, right?" He followed her instructions.

"You've got a weapon, don't you?"

"A big one, yes… oh."

"Find out what he wants, and find out what he's doing with that Bullhead. Remember, this is an ex-White Fang hangar. He could be associated with them, or someone else entirely."

"Wow. He could be a potato, or he could not be a potato. It's almost like-"

"You know what I mean."

"Come on. That one was funny."

She gave him a look that clearly said she thought otherwise, then shoved him – rather rudely, he had to admit – towards the hangar. "Get going."

He was still snickering immaturely to himself halfway through the hangar doors.

The boarding ramp to the Bullhead was open to him. The light inside was dim, but he could see clearly enough; there was a bald man inside, sitting – no, squatting on the floor and facing away from him. At the stranger's side was a red bag: the first-aid kit, facing down.

"Uh… hi," he said, making his way to the foot of the ramp. Maybe if he'd been entirely sober, he thought, he'd have approached it a little differently. But he wasn't entirely sober.

The man stood and turned to face him. It took a moment for Artorias to remember where he'd seen the man before. "You're the… numbers guy?" The man with the angular face, the man from Izalith, with the spear and the shield with an eagle on it. Artorias couldn't remember the stranger's name – thirty-something?

"That's quite an interesting name," said the stranger. "I'll wear it with pride."

"Izalith. Remember?"

"Ah. I'm glad to say I was _not_ , in fact, thirty… four?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. Probably better."

Not-thirty-four sniffed the air. "Dousing yourself nicely, I see. Well, you're a lot of things, but you're not Atlas Military. That Specialist is around again, I suppose?"

Artorias tapped the side of his nose and winked. "Classified," he said, smirking.

"Oh, very well, very well. Now – tell me why you've bugged this fine vessel." He ushered Artorias up the ramp into the Bullhead. There was still no cargo on-board.

"White Fang," Artorias said, spouting out the first thing that came to mind. Perhaps he'd overestimated how much he'd sobered up on the walk. "This place used to be a White Fang base."

"Indeed it was."

"You're not working with them, are you?" In his head, he could just about _hear_ Winter yelling at him about how distinctly unsubtle he was being.

"They don't interest me," Not-thirty-four said.

"That's not really an answer."

"I'm not working with them. Plain and simple, alright? So, about that Specialist – she's not gonna jump out at me, is she?"

"I'll keep you in suspense," Artorias said.

Not-thirty-four's face twisted. "Fine. The truth, then: why is Atlas bugging this Bullhead?"

"Why were you in Izalith?"

"Why were _you_ in Izalith?"

"I needed to work on my tan."

"Really? You look like the sort who just burns."

"Aura is a _wonderful_ thing, you know."

Not-thirty-four frowned, then broke into a half-hearted chuckle. "You're alright. Artorias, wasn't it?"

"Mm-hmm."

"I'm going to offer you a deal," said Not-thirty-four. "We alternate questions. We can't answer with a lie. That sound fair to you?"

Artorias shrugged. "Sounds fair."

"Righty-o. I'll go first: why did you bug this Bullhead?"

"Because the Specialist told me to," he said smoothly. It was the truth, after all. Still, Not-thirty-four scowled. "Fine, you can have this for free," Artorias continued. "We're looking for someone. We were investigating this hangar when the Bullhead came in a few nights back. It seemed suspicious, so we bugged it."

"Good enough. Your turn."

"What are you using this Bullhead for?"

"Practice," he said.

"Care to elaborate?"

"No – and you can have _that_ question for free. What were you looking for in Izalith?"

They'd been looking for two things: Anastacia and the Fume Knight. He remembered that. He could give one name, and it'd count as the truth – just not all the truth. "There was a rumour we were chasing," he said, "of a knight in old black armour. He calls himself the Fume Knight."

Not-thirty-four's eyes narrowed – well, they became _more_ narrow. "Hmm. Ask away."

"You know the Fume Knight." It was a statement, not a question, but one he felt confident making. "How?"

He paused. "I have come face-to-face with him, yes. He is no friend of mine, believe me."

"Is he why you were in Izalith?"

"I believe it's my turn. The girl – the shrivelled corpse. Who was she?"

Well, he'd managed to stretch one answer over two questions. "Her name was Anastacia Sil."

Not-thirty-four nodded slowly, scratching his chin. "Your turn. We'll make it the last one, alright?"

Artorias nodded. "What's your name?" he asked.

"You really want that to be your last question?"

"Mm-hmm." Perhaps it was a wasted question, but he trusted that the stranger was not allied with the Fume Knight. And dodging the previous question was as good an answer as any – he too was searching for the Fume Knight, or at least _had_ been searching for him. But a name could be used to keep track of him, and that might be useful, if he had knowledge to share.

"I have many names," said Not-thirty-four. "Apparently, I am 'the numbers guy'. I am also the Hyena, the Spider, the Trickster. I am Trusty and I am Traitor. I am Unbreakable and I am Broken. I am the last Warden and the first Architect."

"Those are titles, not names. And odd titles at that."

"Where does the distinction lie? I am luck incarnate. I am friend to rats and foe to snakes. I am Knowledge, Ignorance; I am the fourth of four."

"None of that means anything to me."

"Yet titles have the _most_ meaning of any name. Is a name not arbitrarily given? What means more to you? Artorias, or Wolf Knight? I suppose if it's a name you're after, you can call me Lapp. And if we're quite done, I intend to - uh - _practice_ with this here Bullhead." He gestured around. "Forgive me if I break your cameras. I'm sure you understand – being spied on is rather _rude._ "

"If you're hunting the Fume Knight, we can help each other."

He knelt down and pried the camera from the first-aid kit, crushing it in his hand a moment later. "Didn't you hear? I'm kicking you out."

Artorias scratched the back of his neck, a movement that could at first be mistaken for reaching for his weapon. Lapp tensed, and he glanced to the spear leaning against the wall of the Bullhead. "Not literally, I hope," Artorias said.

"Not yet," threatened Lapp.

There was something in his eyes that made Artorias back down. With a sharp nod, he turned and departed.

/-/

It was good that Mercury had contacted Cinder.

She'd caught the tail-end of Artorias and Winter's first call – as, like all such calls, it was routed through the CCT, thus giving her access – and then all of that second call, the one with just the Wolf and this… Lapp. Knowing who it was, now, she counted herself lucky that he hadn't turned over the forgeries. It would have, perhaps, been better if Mercury had been there in person, but she understood that she'd given him quite a difficult task in juggling friendships to spy on _all_ those students.

But nevermind that.

Lapp was no friend to her, and no friend to Raime, though she'd already figured as much. But more importantly, now she knew he was no friend to Ozpin's pet. It was frustrating enough that he had leverage over them, but it was clear now that as long as they didn't move against him, he wouldn't give them up. It was a small mercy. He was still a dangerous wildcard, and she'd yet to decide whether Raime was really worth helping.

But now she also knew Artorias and Winter's mission; they were tracking down Raime. So far, it seemed, he was doing a fine job avoiding them. Not even Cinder knew exactly where he was, though if need be she could contact him. She could trust him to lay low. He had a single-track mind, and as far as he knew (indeed, as far as _she_ knew), she was his best chance to succeed in his mission. He wouldn't knowingly compromise that. Artorias and Winter would _never_ find him.

…unless Cinder gave him up.

 _Let Raime fail._ Cinder could one-up that. And, indeed, she could see _reason_ to – Sulyvahn's ambitions were beginning to make a little sense. What was it he'd said? _The King of Words becomes the King of Everything._ And if he wanted to become King of Everything...

It all clicked into place. What could he want with a Maiden? What could he want with a Relic? _My goals align with Salem's_ , he'd said. He wanted what Salem wanted in the most literal sense – he didn't want anything for her, he wanted what she wanted for _himself_. He wanted to topple Salem from her throne.

Cinder's breath caught a little. That was… suicidal. But neither he nor Salem could become a Maiden – at least, she didn't _think_ Salem could become a Maiden. That was why Sulyvahn wanted her _loyalty_ : to use her against a Goddess. He'd want other Maidens too, surely. And every Relic... one in each kingdom, one in each school. But now there were two in Vale - two relics, and two Maidens. He wanted it all.

The picture was becoming clearer in her head. Sulyvahn had said he wanted _everything_ , and he'd meant it. But Sulyvahn was a cruel man and a crueller master. She'd seen his 'daughter', that twisted _thing_ that had attacked Vengarl. Whatever it was, it was in great pain, bent to his will – perhaps _because_ it was bent to his will. Was that his semblance? Or maybe it was some power he'd obtained elsewhere, in the horrible labs of Atlas. She wouldn't be surprised if they'd experimented with mind control, though she'd seen no solid evidence to support such. With Vordt so highly-ranked in the military, he'd certainly have access to anything of the sort.

If Sulyvahn wanted to go against Salem, Cinder would side against him. The problem came from _consequences_. Sulyvahn was a respected member of Atlas' council, and a beloved religious figurehead – both of which were seats he'd gained through legitimate means. She couldn't turn him over to Ozpin and Ironwood. She'd have to explain how she knew, and they'd believe Sulyvahn before her. Even if she _could_ take him down with her, that'd leave her in a cell. She had no intention of going to prison.

Sulyvahn had promised her a favour, though. And she could call on one from Raime, even if she followed Lapp's advice to let the Fume Knight fail. She wasn't above lying. And Raime was known to Ozpin and Ironwood as an enemy. If Sulyvahn were seen with the Fume Knight, that would be incriminating, and she could get away with it smelling like roses…

Unless Sulyvahn's beast came for her. She had no idea _how_ he controlled it, but from what little she'd seen she had the distinct feeling that it wasn't anything natural. Even if it were something as simple as speaking to the beast, he might have already given it orders: if Sulyvahn were taken, she and her underlings were to be executed. Knowing him, he'd stoop to mutually assured destruction. She couldn't risk that kind of attention.

Well, not unless it came at the right moment.

Her lips curled upwards.

* * *

 **A bit of a shorter one.**

 **I think I've said this before, but I'll say it again: Smough is one of the hardest characters to write, especially when he lies. I'm looking forward to writing more of him, though. Seriously. It's gonna be _epic._**

 **Cinder finally cottons on to Sulyvahn's end-game and starts altering her own plans to match. Better the evil you know than the evil you don't. She's got no disillusions as to Salem's nature, but Salem is kind (ish) to those loyal to her. Sulyvahn _can_ be kind, but it's never anything more than a front and Cinder knows it.**

 **There should only be two more chapters until we hit actual V3 events. Having a framework to follow is really gonna take some weight off my shoulders, let me tell you.**

 **Next chapter - September 29th.**


	27. Chapter 26: The Ringed City

_We're getting close._

 _I never really understood this place. Look at it – mangled remnants from every age and every land. Not even a Warden to guard it. Stupid, stupid…_

 _Still. It's unsettling, isn't it? Can you hear that? The chanting? I don't like this place one bit. And there's something in that chorus that calls to me – calls to everyone. No? Just me? Well, at least I'm special._

 _It's a long way down. Best get moving._

/-/

Artorias awoke the next morning – or, well, closer to midday, really – quite _irritable._ He refused to call it a hangover.

When he'd returned to his dorm the previous night Ciaran and Gough had already been there, fast asleep – Gilderoy had been missing, presumably at Smough's hotel room. Artorias had purged that image from his mind as quickly as it had come. His cloak had been folded up on his bed, waiting for him.

After leaving the hangar, he'd returned to Winter. She'd not been entirely happy, insisting that he should have pressed Lapp's knowledge of the Fume Knight, but he'd reasoned that Lapp wouldn't give the full truth of the matter – he would have given the name of the 'mutual acquaintance' first, if he'd been so inclined, and as he'd quickly made abundantly clear, he was not above giving an utterly useless name if it suited him.

Winter had, in the end, trusted his judgement, albeit grudgingly.

They'd then returned to Winter's office to check the camera feed. Lapp had found the one in the cockpit and destroyed that too, but not the ones placed within the hangar. That hardly mattered, of course: both Lapp and the Bullhead were gone, and Winter had said that he'd likely find a new place to leave the vehicle.

And after that, he'd gone straight to bed.

And now he was _irritable_.

Cursing to himself, he shrugged his clothes on and headed straight for the cafeteria. This could only be solved with coffee, mustard, and hash browns.

He was halfway there when his scroll buzzed with a notification. _Detention – 11:30 a.m._

That was in… five minutes, more-or-less. And, while he was willing to push Winter's patience to a certain extent, Glynda was another matter entirely; he wouldn't _dare_ be late on her watch.

He cursed under his breath again and changed course. A brisk walk was enough to reach her office with a minute to spare. He was somewhat surprised to see Winter coming from the other end of the hall.

"How are you feeling?" she asked as she approached, though the slight smile at the edges of her mouth gave away that she understood he was _irritable._

"Good morning to you too," he grumbled. "You've got detention too? Never thought I'd see the day."

"I certainly hope not, but yes, I've been called here."

"Hope is a futile thing," Artorias said knocking on the door. "But – for hope's sake – I hope you like paperwork."

"It's open," Glynda called.

Artorias held the door open. "Ladies first?" he prompted. Winter eyed him suspiciously, and he rolled his eyes. "I'm just putting off facing Goodwitch."

"I heard that," Glynda said.

"I'm glad to hear you're not deaf," Artorias drawled. He followed Winter into Goodwitch's office.

Same as last time, Glynda was seated behind her desk, pen in hand, though at least this time she was glaring that the paperwork instead of him. But, surprisingly, it was Ozpin who greeted them, standing next to Glynda's desk with a mug of coffee in-hand. "Good morning to you both," he said.

"Is he getting detention too?" Artorias asked.

Glynda shot Ozpin a wry look. "I'm afraid not," she said.

"Thankfully so," Ozpin agreed. "I won't keep you long. How goes your search for the Fume Knight?"

"Shit," said Artorias.

"We've made some progress," Winter corrected.

"These are some rather mixed messages," Ozpin said.

"I hold to the idea that the most efficient way would be to lure him out using the prisoner," Winter said, "but in lieu of that we're using underworld contacts in Vale to find potential hideouts."

"And all we've managed to find is that weird dude from Izalith. Oh, and some paint," Artorias added off-handedly.

Ozpin's brow furrowed. "Number thirty-five, he called himself?"

"Was it? Definitely thirty-something."

"It was thirty-five," Winter said.

"Huh."

"He was operating in Vale airspace out of a hangar that was until recently used by the White Fang," she explained. "We're not sure why. He did, however, say that he too is no friend to the Fume Knight."

"And you trust him?"

"I'd trust him about as far as I could throw him, but he seemed honest on that front."

Artorias shrugged. "If you added a few glyphs, you could probably throw him pretty far."

"That's not the point."

"Well, _duh_ ; I'm just saying. Ever tried it?"

"I'm considering it right now, actually."

Ozpin waved a hand, gesturing for them to cease their bickering. "Did he say anything else?"

"We don't have to keep calling him the 'thirty-five guy' anymore. He calls himself Lapp, apparently, and a _lot_ of other names besides," Artorias said. He didn't miss the slight narrowing of Ozpin's eyes at the name.

"The Hyena, the Spider, and the Trickster," Winter recited. "The last Warden and the first Architect."

"You really memorised that?" Artorias asked, turning to her.

"Some of it."

"That's enough," Ozpin said, cutting them off. His brow furrowed in thought, and he sipped at his coffee as he considered the names. "What was he doing in Vale?" he asked.

"Practicing, apparently. He didn't elaborate," Artorias said, shrugging. "Something to do with the Bullhead."

Ozpin nodded slowly. "Interesting," he said simply, and the grim expression that had taken over his face disappeared in an instant, and it seemed that as far as he was concerned they'd already moved on. "I didn't just call you here for a status update, of course."

"Or just detention?"

"Or just detention," Ozpin agreed. "It's come to light that the Fume Knight – or the original owner of his armour, anyway – was one of three possible members of Mistral's kingsguard during the early years of the Great War."

"Names?" Winter asked, already prepared to note them down on her scroll.

"Alexander Throne, Nostrum Throne, and Raime Marabel," Ozpin recited. Winter's fingers flew across her scroll. "I doubt it'll be of much use, but-"

"-but any and all intel is welcome," Winter finished. "We'll keep it in mind."

Ozpin nodded sharply. "Good," he said. "Mr Nym, once you're done here I'd ask you to join me in my office. Enjoy the paperwork."

"Keen as a… whistle." Artorias let the pun slip out without thinking. Even _he_ knew it was a bad pun.

"Do you even hear yourself?" Winter asked.

"I'm sure I can find more paperwork for you to do," Professor Goodwitch warned.

Ozpin sipped at his coffee, his expression neutral. "I'll see you then," he said simply, then turned to leave.

Artorias – probably wisely, really – chose not to say anything and instead sat in the chair before Professor Goodwitch's desk, gesturing for her to send a stack of paper his way. Glynda nodded to Winter, and a moment later he heard her footsteps receding behind him. Without looking back, he offered a half-hearted wave over his shoulder.

"Alright," he said to Professor Goodwitch, "what am I doing?"

On his right, there was a thick leatherbound tome. "This is the census from Carim. I don't know what year, but it's the most recent." She gestured to the small pile of forms on the left. "And these are the settlement permits."

"Settlement permits?"

"It's to say that the person – whoever it is – can legally own land in the new settlement," she explained. She continued as an aside, "Of course, the council has no idea _where_ they're going to settle the refugees just yet." Her face twisted into a grimace. "For the first five years after a new settlement is founded, all new settlers need to be authorised by the council – in theory, at least. Outside the walls, nobody really cares who lives where, but _legally_ they can't settle without the council's permission. Usually they send-"

"Convicts," Artorias finished. "The council ships convicts to new settlements outside the walls and hope that they get overrun."

"It's a way of reducing incarceration rates, albeit an underhanded one," Professor Goodwitch continued. "The council wants to make criminals somebody else's problem. As questionable as it is, I'll admit that it works." She pinched the bridge of her nose. "The permits are already a joke, to be totally honest, and even if they weren't it would be nothing more than a formality. Carim was on the map for three decades, after all, and it'll mostly be the same community."

Artorias picked up one of the settlement permits from the pile. Printed on a small sheet of paper, it asked for very little information: a name, a gender, an age, and a race. It didn't even ask for nationality, nor for any proof thereof. He supposed the council didn't really care who lived in Vale as long as they remained outside the capital's walls. A joke indeed. Idly, he wondered whether his father had filled out such a form when he'd left for the north coast. From what little he could remember, the town had been a new settlement at the time. But he wouldn't put it past Arthur Quill to settle somewhere illegally.

"Next question: why are _we_ filling them out?"

"A favour for Arstor," Glynda said simply. "He wants his lot to stay as far away from the bureaucracy as possible. I can't say I blame him." Artorias could agree on that front.

"And if the census is inaccurate?"

"The council doesn't need to know." Glynda shrugged. "Like I said: it's a necessary formality at best and a joke at worst."

Artorias reached for the census. "And here I thought you were a stickler for rules," he said, grinning.

She didn't comment on that.

/-/

Roman Torchwick could hear the heavy boots approaching. His gaze flickered to the tiny letterbox window in his cell door and he watched as Lautrec, flanked by two Atlesian soldiers, was returned to his cell.

That was strange. Lautrec usually wasn't back until late in the evening. The man from Carim was interred only one cell over from Roman, and though they'd exchanged names, neither knew much about the other.

He waited until the guards had left before speaking. "You're back early," Roman said.

There was no response. He heard a dull thud, as though Lautrec was slumping against a wall.

"Long day?"

"Short one."

"Naturally."

Most days, he'd be taken away. He never told Roman where or why, though Roman had his suspicions. He'd seen Ozpin and the little old scientist come to see Lautrec, of course, and though he'd missed the important details of their conversation, he at least knew that they had an interest in Lautrec. At the very least, it'd be diverting their attention from Cinder, which could only be a good thing as far as Roman was concerned. After all, Cinder's success was the key to his freedom.

Well – that and Neo. That _or_ Neo, even – were Cinder to fail, he was at least eighty per-cent sure Neo would try to storm the airship on her own. She probably could too, he thought – unless she were to come face to face with Ironwood.

"What are you in here for, Roman?" Lautrec asked. It was the first time the question had come up between them. In fact, it was the first question of any real substance they'd had.

"Terrorism, mostly," Roman said, deciding that despite 'conspiracy' being a far more accurate term, he probably shouldn't say it; there was little doubt in his mind that the ship had ears. "With a bit of thievery on the side."

"Huh."

Roman didn't ask anything in return. He didn't really _care_ , after all.

"I'm here for murder," Lautrec continued, after a long pause.

"Well, look at you, big tough murder-man," Roman drawled. That was interesting _,_ sure – very few murders would be bad enough to warrant a spot in General Ironwood's jolly old jail – but Roman didn't push. Again, it didn't bother him either way. Not to brag, but he was probably the worse criminal of the pair, what with the conspiracy and all. Lautrec could do whatever he wanted, as long as he didn't fuck up Roman's escape.

"She's been in my head ever since, whining and whining. _Why_ , she asks. I don't know anymore."

Roman rolled his eyes. It sounded to him like Lautrec was being an overdramatic twat. Some people weren't cut out for murder. Even Neo, who had quite the penchant for murder, did it only on rare occasions, and only to those who deserved it.

Neo's definition of 'deserve' was somewhat looser than most, sure, but still – she had a code, and she stuck to it.

Roman sighed and offered Lautrec a suggestion. "Sounds to me like you need a drink." Laced with a sleeping drug, of course, but still, a drink.

Lautrec said nothing.

/-/

Vengarl entered the elevator and pressed the button for Ozpin's office. Just as the doors were closing, a student called out to him, "Hey, hold the door for a second!"

He did so.

A silver-haired wolf faunus joined him soon after in the elevator. He went to press the button for Ozpin's office before seeing that Vengarl was already going there.

"Artorias, correct?"

"Yup."

Vengarl had been summoned on rather short notice to Ozpin's office. Seeing that Artorias was to be there too, Vengarl thought to himself that the wolf was likely about to be brought into the fold. Perhaps Vengarl was to be there only to back up Oz's (admittedly) rather outlandish claims.

"And you're the guy training teams Ruby and Juniper? Vengarl, right?" Artorias asked.

"Mm-hmm." He'd just come from the training room, in fact.

Artorias nodded to himself. The elevator continued upwards.

"So… any idea what Ozpin wants?"

"I have an idea, yes." Vengarl didn't see the need to elaborate. He would either be right or he would be wrong.

"Huh."

They waited in silence.

Eventually, the elevator _dinged_ , and Oz called out, "Come in." The doors opened. Oz was alone in his office. He gestured to the chairs in front of his desk. "I see you've met each other. Good."

Vengarl sat down and gratefully took the coffee offered to him. "Such short notice is odd in these days," he noted.

"Some things deserve to acted on immediately," Oz replied. Next to Vengarl, Artorias shifted in his seat. "Do you know the name 'Lapp', Vengarl?"

"Oh, we can talk about classified stuff then, right?" Artorias asked.

"Indeed."

"Good. Just checking."

 _Lapp._ Mm-hmm. Vengarl had heard it before, only once, on a blood-soaked dune in Vacuo. To this day he didn't know what it meant or who it referred to. "I know it," Vengarl said. "Why?"

"He's in Vale. Or was, anyway," Oz said off-handedly. "I'll ask Tai to keep an eye out for him. That's not important."

"If it weren't important, you wouldn't have brought him up," Vengarl pointed out.

Oz inclined his head. "Suffice to say that he is a wild card. I don't know who he hates more, and I don't know who he'd act against."

"You're losing me," Artorias said.

Oz ignored him. "What's important is what he knows, and he knows a great deal. Nothing would ensure his hostility more than hunting him down. Instead, I need you to seek out a potential target of his."

A mission, then. "Where am I going and for whom am I searching?"

"North," Oz said, "to Oolacile. There's a cave system beneath the town. The entrance is hidden in the woods nearby. Deep within the caverns exists a grave."

"A grave?" Artorias repeated, his brow furrowing. "You want us to look for a dead man?"

"Not you. Vengarl."

He looked confused, but shrugged it off and fell silent.

"His question is perfectly valid regardless," Vengarl said. "Whose grave is it?"

Oz sipped at his coffee and glanced between them. "Mine," he said.

For a brief moment, silence reigned. Then Artorias snickered.

"As much as I wish otherwise, this is no laughing matter," Oz said.

"Anything can be a laughing matter," Artorias corrected. Vengarl frowned. He highly doubted that.

"Are you sure, Oz?" Vengarl asked, subtly tilting his head to the wolf faunus. How much was Oz planning on telling him? It was clear now that Oz was killing two – or perhaps three – birds with one stone; revealing the truth of the world to Artorias, giving Vengarl a mission, and informing Vengarl that the wolf was – to some extent – trusted.

"I'm sure. June needs him – and, while Qrow is absent, I suspect I will too."

"June?" Artorias asked. "What's June got to do with any of this?"

"She'll tell you sooner or later," Oz said vaguely. "Find the grave, Vengarl. Ensure that my rest has not been disturbed."

"You're serious," Artorias said, realisation dawning. "Or plain mad."

"If only, Mr Nym."

"You're clearly not interred."

"What would the consequence be, were he to dig up your grave?" Vengarl asked. This wasn't anything Oz had ever mentioned before. He didn't really surprise him. Even when he'd been Oz's right hand man, there had been plenty of secrets. This was just another, and it wasn't something personal for Vengarl.

"Most likely, my corpse would come to hunt me down and destroy all of Vale to reach me," Oz said. "And believe me, it could destroy far more than just Vale."

"Mad, then."

Vengarl nodded. "How long should I stay there?"

"You're both insane."

"Until the end of the tournament," Oz said. "If Lapp were to awaken the beast, he'd have done so already, or at the very least be on his way there now that I know he's alive and active."

Vengarl nodded. While he had little desire to traipse around Remnant on Oz's orders once again, he'd given Oz his word that he would help. "I'll leave tomorrow. I need time to say some farewells."

Oz nodded. "Good. Thank you, Vengarl."

"So about that whole 'what the hell is going on' thing?"

Vengarl recognised the dismissal and stood. "You sure about him?" He nodded towards Artorias.

"More-or-less."

"And you're sure you don't want me to clue him in?"

"I can call June if necessary."

"She's crazy too?"

"Good luck, Vengarl," Oz dismissed.

/-/

Artorias' mind was whirling.

He'd known it'd be about Lapp. It had clearly thrown Ozpin for a loop back in Glynda's office, though he'd been unsure why only he'd been summoned and not Winter. And now the theories were spinning through his head. A grand conspiracy? Maybe. Utter lunacy? More likely. Was he being inducted into a corpse-worshipping cult? Certainly a possibility.

"I'm sure you have questions."

"A few." He heard the elevator doors close as Vengarl departed. "Maybe – I don't know – _what the fuck?"_

Ozpin sipped at his coffee. "From the dark, they came, and found the souls of lords within the Flame," he reminded Artorias.

"So that wasn't about Lautrec? That was just insane bullshittery?"

"Lautrec?" Ozpin raised an eyebrow. "Why would it be about Lautrec?"

"You know, the glowy-soul-aura thing he does. That. Can we backtrack for a minute?"

"Perhaps we should," Ozpin agreed. "Let's start from the beginning. What do you know of immortality?"

"Immortals – theoretically – live forever."

"Not necessarily," Ozpin explained. "A soul may exist without a body, for a time. If that soul comes to inhabit another body, and then another once the new one dies, would you not say that the soul is immortal?"

"If. And it's a _big_ if." He supposed it made sense. The study of souls was a largely unfledged field, and even if it weren't Artorias had little interest in it. But if aura, the manifestation of a soul, could persist – albeit briefly – when separated from its source, perhaps so too could the soul itself. "You're saying that you've died before and your soul was… reincarnated?"

"No. _My_ soul finds an already-living host," Ozpin corrected.

"You're losing me again."

"June is the one who reincarnates. Well – she is one of two such people that I know of."

"June… reincarnates?"

"That's what I said, no?"

"Look, this is all _very_ hard to believe."

"But it is the truth," Ozpin said, offering no proof. "There are, of course, immortals in the more traditional sense. Lapp is one of them."

"So, what, does that make him the First Immortal or something?"

"First of the Immortals," Ozpin corrected, "and no."

Artorias let out a long sigh. "I'm gonna need some proof. Like… _anything_."

"I'm afraid that without killing myself and waiting for the new me to show up, I can't offer proof on that front," Ozpin said. "And no, before you ask, I don't intend to die any time soon."

"Alright, if you're immortal, you know things from history, right? Things _nobody_ else would know?" Ozpin nodded. Artorias thought for a second – surely Oobleck had brought up a few unknowns from history. "Operation Mirrah," he started. "What was it?"

"A two-pronged assault. The Blue Legion marched on Alsius as a diversion while a smaller covert team stole a magic painting from a vault beneath Mantle."

"Magic paintings? Really? That's the best you can do? Why the hell were you pushing…" Artorias paused. Why'd he been pushing Gilderoy, and what was it he'd had Gilderoy touch? A painting, ancient, with dust infused in the canvas. Or perhaps more than dust?

"Every myth contains a grain of truth," Ozpin explained. " _The Lion, the Witch, and the Painting_ , for example. It paints – if you'll pardon the pun – the 'witch' in a bad light, but aside from that it's largely accurate."

"All I've got here is your claim. What about-"

" _The Father of Giants_ ," Ozpin continued. "A great king gathers four great relics to grant him great power, and with them he destroys an invading army: the mask of the father, the sword of chaos, the ring of favour, and-"

"-and the grass-crest sceptre," Artorias said. "Yes, I'm familiar."

"The names are somewhat fanciful, but there's merit to the tale. Come." Ozpin stood and laid his cane down on the desk. "Let me show you proof."

/-/

Cinder Fall scrolled through a list of students. Who to pit against whom; all she particularly cared about was sending the Nikos girl through to the next round and eliminating the wolf's team. Of course, armed with the knowledge that Sulyvahn was plotting not only against the kingdoms, but against _everyone_ – Salem included – she noted down every Atlesian student as she saw them. Perhaps that one belonged to Sulyvahn, the sullen young man with the hooked nose. Or maybe the dapper young musician, or maybe even the ginger girl in green.

Not that she was a girl, Cinder reminded herself. They'd had access to Ironwood's own files for days, though it had taken a while to search through them all. Few were of great interest. P.E.N.N.Y was interesting, though. What purpose Atlas had for a killing machine disguised as a girl, Cinder had no idea. It sounded like something Sulyvahn would come up with, though. If he knew about it, he'd take full advantage of it regardless of whose idea it was.

Perhaps she should remove the robot too. Perhaps she should do it a little more _lethally_. Nikos could certainly do it, with her semblance geared specifically towards it. Maybe it should even happen early on, just to cripple Sulyvahn.

No. Her lips curled in a wry smile. She still couldn't say for sure whether it was Sulyvahn. Of course, the monstrosity ought to be destroyed either way – Atlas deserved no less – but so early? No. Something such as that could end the tournament altogether. It would be the coup de grâce.

If not, though, then who should she pit against Nikos' team?

She looked over the files of team Juniper. Jaune Arc, leader. Low but passing grades in all combat-related fields. No recorded semblance. Nora Valkyrie… oh.

She could absorb electrical energy to empower herself.

Well then – that was a direct counter to Gilderoy Ornstein.

Would it be enough, though? Ren, Nora, and Nikos all excelled at combat, according their grades at the very least (and Pyrrha being an accomplished tourney fighter besides), but they were only first years. Meanwhile, bringing up the files for team Gwyn, Nym was among the best combatants of his year at Shade, not to mention that he'd survived an encounter with Raime. Ornstein and White trailed not far behind, and while Gough Iris suffered in solo fights, she had little doubt he was an absolute monster when he had a team to protect him. And team Juniper had Jaune Arc for deadweight.

But they _were_ being trained by Vengarl, if Mercury were to be believed. Perhaps his glory days were behind him, but Vengarl had been a teacher for sixty years, give or take. Experience like that was hard to come by. Surely they'd improved in the short time they'd been training with him.

She quickly cycled through the other teams. Were there any others she could pit against team Gwyn? Team Coffee, perhaps – after all, what was a bow against a minigun? But White and Ornstein both were agile fighters, and closing the gap on Adel would be a simple task for them.

She looked through more combatants. This one had a semblance that could summon rain – not a thunderstorm, or even heavy rain – just a light drizzle. Useless. That one had a pen that functioned as a channel for dust. It didn't even transform into another weapon, and though Cinder was sure that its user must have trained long and hard in its use, it didn't inspire any confidence.

The betting odds would surely reveal who was considered most likely to win – and there it was. Team Juniper had the best odds, and though she'd hardly rely entirely on bookies to tell her the strongest team, it confirmed her own belief. They were overlooking Jaune's grades and focusing on the champion fighter on the team – he likely wouldn't fight in the doubles or the singles if his team made it that far anyway.

That, of course, was a good point. Without Jaune, Nikos (and whoever she brought with her) would stand a far better chance against team Gwyn. How necessary was it to remove them from the tournament so early? Not particularly.

So, she decided, she'd throw a different team against team Gwyn in the four-v-four rounds while giving team Juniper an easy victory. Then, unless she got lucky and team Gwyn failed at the start, she'd match Nikos against them for the doubles.

Who, then, to match against team Gwyn _now_?

/-/

The pearl set in the handle of Ozpin's cane flashed blindingly bright. Artorias, still sitting in his chair, suddenly found himself without a chair and fell to the ground.

He felt sand beneath him. "Where are we?"

"That's a four-part answer," Ozpin began. He still had his mug of coffee with him, and sipped at it before offering Artorias a hand up. "Technically speaking, we're still in my office at Beacon."

"Technically?"

"We're also within my cane."

"I hope that's not a euphemism."

Ozpin ignored the quip. "This is a world within a pearl, Creation made manifest. But it borders on Remnant in other places too."

Artorias turned in a circle, taking in the view. Dunes of sand expanded before him in every direction. On the horizon, though, he spotted something familiar – great crumbling walls that towered over the dune, and the spires of a ruined cathedral within.

"That's Vacuo," he said dumbly. "We're in Vacuo. That's Old Oasis." Something flickered in his peripheral vision, and he turned to look at it only for it to disappear.

"And we are also in a prison," Ozpin said.

A ringing sound reached Artorias' ears, like steel clashing on steel. "Just, you know, for the sake of reiteration, what the _fuck_?"

"This is where the world ended."

A great storm began to whip around their feet. The sands were blown into the wind, rising up higher and higher, the storm growing stronger and thicker, until Artorias could see nothing. Then the sands were drawn up into the sky, and he was no longer in the desert, but in a city. It seemed abandoned. Cracks ran through brickwork embraced by vines. Not a single sound could be heard.

"This is the Ringed City," Ozpin said. "What's left of it, anyway. It and the sands of Vacuo are intertwined." He gestured up a set of stairs leading up to an open door. Warily, Artorias ascended. Within, he found a girl no older than himself, clutching a shattered pearl. Her throat was slit, and her glassy eyes confirmed that she was already dead.

Ozpin entered behind him and gazed down sadly at the girl. "Do you believe me now, Mr Nym?"

"Who was she?"

"A girl who should have lived a long, full life, and then died peacefully in her sleep surrounded by loved ones," Ozpin said.

"Who killed her?"

Ozpin shrugged. "Salem, most likely."

"Salem?"

"The First of the Immortals," he said. "Lady of Vale, Free Will Incarnate. Or, as the more modern version of the tale would have it, the First Immortal. She too has many names."

"And… who are you?"

"It doesn't matter," he said. "You're free to your suspicions. I will neither confirm nor deny them, but we shouldn't put all our secrets in one basket, should we? You're here because June wanted you here. When she dies – hopefully not for a long while yet – she wants somebody to find her new self, and to manage affairs at Shade until her return."

"And that somebody is me?"

"Hopefully, yes."

The world changed once more. Brick and mortar cracked and crumbled and fell away, and though he was sure that he'd been able to see the sky from outside, when the tower around him collapsed he was instead in a large room. The floor was carpeted, and the décor reminded him distinctly of June's office. At one end was a couch, across which lay a woman, clothed in white but stained red with blood.

Artorias stepped towards her. As he came closer, he saw that the wound was in her stomach. Her hands had been folded across her breast, and her eyes were closed. It was as though somebody had prepared her for a funeral.

"She looks like June."

"Yes," Ozpin confirmed. "The soul can shape more than our semblance. It shapes our memories, our personalities, our habits and our tics. Unfortunately, the memories are often at odds. June dyes her hair so as to better match her past life, you know. Conflicting memories can… break a person. She didn't want it to happen to her."

"This _is_ June?"

"It was, yes. This was her first life and her first death, as a warden of the Ringed City."

Artorias let that sink in. June was… immortal? But she could be so irresponsible at times, and even if it were a farce sometimes she could be downright immature. Surely someone who'd lived so long would have more sense than that. He simply couldn't imagine her as immortal. Perhaps something was lost from life to life. Memories…

"Operation Mirrah," Artorias said. It dawned on him then why Ozpin would ask a question that nobody truly knew the answer to, and _expect_ an answer. "Is Gilderoy-"

"June and I suspected so, but no, he is not," Ozpin said. "He is just as mortal as you. I was loathe to push him, but June was quite insistent. I'm glad she was wrong, in this case."

"Who did you think he was?"

"That's for June to tell," Ozpin said. "Do you believe me yet, Mr Nym?"

He nodded, though without much conviction.

"Good. All of this is to be kept secret. The only people who know how deep this goes are myself, June, Qrow, and Vengarl."

"Qrow?"

"I'll be sure to introduce you as soon as he returns."

Artorias nodded slowly. "But… why?"

"Why what?"

"Why is this all so secret?" he asked. "If you and June and others are immortal, why not dedicate your infinite lives to… I don't know, curing cancer?"

"We tried," Ozpin explained. He made for the doors leading out of June's tomb, and Artorias followed. "The Ringed City was not built as a prison, but as a paradise. Neither mortals nor immortals age here, nor do they grow hungry or sick. The Lord of Sunlight had no desire to depart Remnant, but one of his trusted advisors researched immortality – and methods to _become_ immortal – on his orders. The King of Mantle stood alone in believing that mortality itself was precious, and dedicated himself to improving the lives of his people while they yet lived."

He pushed open the doors, and they found themselves on the upper balcony of a great hall. A great moaning reached Artorias' ears, along with a strange bubbling sound that made him feel very uncomfortable. Ozpin gestured for him to look over the edge, and below he saw that the floor was covered in black bile, among which swam a massive black slug, bones and detritus issuing from its body. In its mouth could be seen the upper body of a man, or perhaps a woman, a crown shaped like the sun on its head. It was this person who was moaning, and even as Artorias watched it let out a broken cry.

"What the fuck…"

"That _thing_ was once a man: a mortal who managed to make himself immortal," Ozpin said, his nose wrinkling in disgust. "The sole remaining inmate of this terrible place. May he rot for all eternity." He grabbed Artorias by the arm and pulled him in closer. "Don't mention that thing to June," he said.

"Will it… break her?"

Ozpin didn't respond. He simply let go and made his way back up towards June's chamber. When he opened the door again, it opened out back into his office. He gestured to Artorias to follow him. "We have many facts to separate from myth," Ozpin said. "Are you familiar with the _Story of the Seasons_?"

Artorias thought to himself that he'd started the day with a hangover, had yet to have breakfast, and hadn't talked to anyone on his team all day.

Instead, he was joining a millennia-old almost-cult.

He laughed tiredly. "Sure," he said. "Seasons. Of _course_ that one's true too. Why not, I guess?"

* * *

 **Diggity.**

 **Hopefully most of that was just confirming suspicions. If not, it should, at the very least, still make sense in retrospect. It's what I've had in mind the whole time, so I don't think there are any inconsistencies (aside from unreliable narrator stuff). It should also help with understanding the pre-chapter monologues I've been running with for the past few months... and that's all I'll say on the Ringed City stuff for now.**

 **In other news, Oolacile looms. But of course, we can't have Artorias going to Oolacile; he hasn't met pupper Sif yet! So, Vengarl goes north.**

 **Cinder plans out the tournament. The very first scene I wrote when I was first drafting this fic was Team Gwyn v Team Juniper in the 4v4s, but when going over V3, I came to the conclusion that Cinder wouldn't risk it. Jaune, despite his training, still isn't up to par with a third-year student, and Pyrrha might not be ale to carry him. So instead they'll go head to head in the 2v2s. I'm keen, but it's a real shame too. I've redrafted 4v4 Gwyn v Juniper about three times, and I'm pretty happy with where it's at. Oh well.**

 **Next chapter will also be out in a week rather than a fortnight! I've still got classes, so it'll be a one off (for now; I'll be going back to weekly updates by November), but assessment's eased up. So, quicker chapter!**

 **Next chapter - October 6th.**


	28. Chapter 27: Ceremony

_Here we are, at long last. The Ringed City. This is the lock, the seal, the gateway to the real world._

 _And why, oh why – why on my own gods-forgotten name is she here? Why did he let her join? She doesn't belong here, I know that much. "I will do my part. I will stand when the rest have fallen." Ignorant, idealistic, arrogant…_

 _And he let her!_

 _We're not the bad guys, are we? We just want to be free. Is that so wrong? Stupid girl. So naïve._

 _But don't get me wrong. She's a part of this._

 _I suppose he thought she was necessary. Just like me._

 _There's no turning back. One last time: her death for our freedom. Kill the Warden._

/-/

"You alright?"

Artorias nearly jumped out of his skin. He'd been deep in thought. "Eh," he said, shaking a hand in a so-so manner. "I'm fine."

Ciaran nodded, though he was sure she didn't buy it, then went back to watching the ceremony.

 _Gods._ There were actual _gods_ , or there had been at any rate. He still wasn't quite sure what to make of that – after all, as Lapp had once put it, if the gods no longer did anything it hardly mattered that they existed. But, regardless of matter or meaning, the claim that gods had once walked Remnant was… staggering, especially when Ozpin could back up such a claim.

However, he'd been careful to make a distinction between _gods_ and _immortals._ Though the Lord of Sunlight had once styled himself as a deity, Ozpin had instead referred to the immortals as lords, in reference to _the Legend of the Lords_. Or, perhaps, it had been the other way around – Artorias wasn't clear on that point. Had the title of lord come first, or had the story come first? Did it matter?

Well, no. It didn't. Especially given, as Ozpin had said, that no such souls existed to his knowledge. Certainly there were relics left behind by the gods – Creation, Destruction, Knowledge, and Choice – each hidden within the Hunter Academies. Though Ozpin had made clear that the relics, more than anything else, were on a need-to-know basis, he'd seen fit to mention that June and Shade guarded Choice; a golden crown with great jagged spires.

And June… Artorias suppressed a shudder as he recalled her corpse. Every time he considered the possibility that he'd been dreaming, he saw her blood-soaked body again in his mind's eye. He'd been meaning to call her ever since, but… well, he simply wasn't ready. He'd seen her dead, and it'd be a lie to say it hadn't affected him.

"Arty!" Ciaran called, flicking him on the cheek. "You're not watching."

"It's just Vale," he mumbled. They'd all agreed to watch the broadcast of the opening ceremony. It wasn't of much interest – not until the matchups were revealed. Each kingdom had a chance to show off their culture. Vale was represented musical song and dance number, and an over-the-top one at that. The camera occasionally cut to extremely wide shots of Amity, revealing that they had freaking _airships_ flying in formation to create a strange aerial dance. Small airships, sure – one-man craft at most – but still, they had dancing airships.

He wasn't sure if he was impressed they'd gone to the effort, disappointed that taxes had been spent on it, or bemused at what a terrible idea it was in the first place.

Still, it was Atlas' showing he'd enjoyed the most. In typical Atlas fashion, they'd represented their strength with a military march, though to spread the message of unity and peace they'd bedecked their soldiers with flowers and painted their armour bright colours. Even better, they hadn't just brought in the rank-and-file footsoldiers, but a few _specialists_ as well.

Including Winter. She was in Vale, after all, so why not?

There was no way any of this was Ironwood's idea. There was no way he'd approved of it. Artorias could only imagine he'd been outvoted _hard_ by the council – if it were even the council who decided these things. He didn't care how it'd happened, but watching Winter sullenly march at the head of a squad of soldiers with a bright yellow tulip pinned to her new colourful uniform and struggling to suppress a scowl was utterly priceless.

He'd have to be careful what he said around her now, though. Ozpin had been clear that even Ironwood knew very little, in the grand scheme of things. Winter was not to know _anything_.

Ironwood knew about the seasons and the maidens, though, and hadn't that story shed some light? Ozpin had said that not only was Anastacia the embodiment of the summer, her autumnal counterpart had also been attacked. Ozpin had been rather tight-lipped on the outcome, save for saying that the Fall Maiden was in a secure location awaiting medical treatment, but none of that sounded _good_. In fact, it sounded very un-good.

And it still didn't explain _why_ Anastacia had been murdered. Lautrec couldn't claim the power for himself, though Ozpin suspected he'd done the next-best thing in trapping her soul. And, casting his mind back, Artorias tried to remember what Lautrec had said, back in Carim. He'd said that Anastacia had _deserved_ it. He'd done it because he'd thought it'd make him feel _good_. Artorias tried to relate such a motive to her powers. Perhaps Lautrec was jealous, but then, he'd also stalked Anastacia for a year at least beforehand. Why wait, if jealousy were the motive?

Vengeance, then. But how had Anastacia wronged him?

Did it really matter?

At the end of the day, no, it didn't. What mattered was that the Maiden's powers were – most likely – trapped with Lautrec until further notice, and that the Fume Knight wanted Lautrec. Ergo, Lautrec had to be protected from the Fume Knight.

"Team Juniper against team Bronze," Gough said, humming in thought. His hands kept deftly whittling away at a ball of wood. "That'll be interesting."

Artorias snorted. "You saw how Quelaag carved through them in the qualifiers, right? If it weren't for May-"

"They'll have May in the tourney too," Gough said.

"But Quelaag only had a three-man team," he said. "Team Juniper is a full team."

"Don't underestimate May," Gough warned. "If they don't deal with her early, she'll pick them off one by one."

"Don't underestimate Jaune," Artorias retorted. "Actually, go ahead and do that. But _certainly_ don't underestimate Pyrrha."

"I almost feel hurt on Jaune's behalf," Gough muttered.

"Ten lien says team Juniper wins with no casualties," Artorias said.

"Are we really betting on this?" Gilderoy muttered, rolling his eyes.

"Well, _you_ don't have to."

"Done," Gough said, then blew some shavings away from his carving. "I like those odds."

"Hey, hey, watch," Ciaran said, tapping Artorias on the arm. "We've got a match-up."

A team from Atlas appeared on the screen; team Harvest, consisting of Hawkwood Crest, Ricard Balth, Rendal Vermeil, and Solaire.

"Oh, Solaire. It's been a while. He was nice," Ciaran mused.

"We'll go easy on him?" Gough suggested.

"Nah."

Artorias' scroll buzzed. He fished it from his pocket, then looked at it, weighing up whether he could be bothered answering. "You gonna get that?" Ciaran asked, giving him a pointed look.

"Dunno," he said, though he still answered within a moment. "Hey Jaune."

" _Oh, uh, hi, so-"_

" _Basicallyyyyy,"_ Nora drawled, stealing Jaune's scroll, _"we're matched against a team from Shade and we were just wondering if, maybe, you might have a little intel to share? Hold on."_ Nora's face turned away from the screen. _"Who was it again?"_ she asked. _"B – R – N – Z? Oh,_ fine _, you do it."_

Jaune wrested control of his scroll back. _"Team Bronze,"_ he said. _"Any ideas?"_

"If you get close to their sniper, she's pretty much useless," he said. "Take her out early."

"That's cheating," muttered Gough.

" _Good to know. Who'd you guys get? Atlas, right?"_

"Team Harvest," Gil said. "You don't happen to know them, do you? Some info couldn't hurt."

" _I could talk to Weiss?"_

" _I don't know them!"_ he heard Weiss call faintly.

"Or you could ask Winter," Gil said, giving Artorias a pointed look.

Well, he _was_ supposed to meet up with her later, presumably after she silenced the vast number of people who'd seen her in a brightly-coloured flower-bedecked uniform. "Or you could ask Penny," Artorias shot back.

"Touché."

" _Well, thanks for the tip,"_ Jaune said, rubbing the back of his head. _"If I hear anything about – what was it? Team Harvest? I'll let you know."_

"Cheers," Gough said. Jaune nodded to them again, then ended the call.

"You heard him," Ciaran said, shoving Gilderoy's scroll towards its owner. "Call Penny."

"What about him?" Gilderoy asked, nodding to Artorias.

"Winter's gonna be in a terrible mood," he said. "It can wait."

/-/

"Huh. Team Auburn. They don't look so tough," Yang mused.

"You could ask Sun if he knows them," Pyrrha suggested. Blake shrugged, not committing to it.

"Or Mercury," Ruby said. "What year are they?"

"Team Auburn?" Weiss checked her scroll. "They're second-year."

"Sun might know them, then."

"It can't hurt to ask," Vengarl said. After the ceremony – the boring part of the ceremony, at the very least – they'd stopped their training for the day to view the matchups. He'd yet to tell them that he was leaving, let alone that he was leaving _tonight_.

Nora butted in. "But what if Sun actually hates you and tells team Auburn your weaknesses out of spite?"

Blake snorted. Vengarl – who'd heard quite a bit about Sun over the past few weeks – understood exactly why. By all accounts, the boy was smitten with her.

Ruby ran with it. "That's a good point – what if he _does_ hate us?"

"It can wait, then," he said. "Ask just before the match. Give him no time to contact them."

"Ooh," Ruby said. "Sneaky."

It was also an unnecessary precaution, but he was feeling overly indulgent. Maybe it was good that he was getting away from Beacon again. In such a short time, he already felt attached to the school again. Not that it was a bad thing, but…

Well, he wasn't sure what would happen after the tournament. All the students would leave the school, and he'd be at Ozpin's beck and call once more. He'd promised to assist in any way he could, and had no intention of going back on his word, but still – what about when school resumed? It was hardly like he could stay on as faculty without teaching a class, which he still had no intention of doing. Perhaps he'd find a place in Vale to live. He was over a hundred years old, after all – it was about time he had a house of his own.

It occurred to him that even when he was the combat instructor at Beacon, he'd never actually owned a house. He hadn't lived in an actual _house_ since his childhood, only tents and motels and inns and his room at Beacon. Was he missing out? He didn't think so. He'd lived on the road for the past twenty years, after all, and it had suited him just fine. But he could hardly go gallivanting off by himself if he were to be Ozpin's hound once again.

"Who votes Weiss?" Ruby called. Her own hand and Yang's went up.

"Really," Blake said, deadpan as ever, her gaze directed at Yang. "Partner loyalty?"

"They're voting on who to send to the doubles if they win," Jaune said quietly, noticing that Vengarl had zoned out. "The only rule is that they can't vote for themselves."

"Ah. Thank you."

"I'll make it up to you," Yang said with a wink. "Some books, maybe? Some of that capital 'L' literature?" She waggled her eyebrows at her partner.

"I was kidding, but I won't say no."

"And you can't vote Blake, Weiss, so-"

"Really feeling the love here," Blake droned.

"-do you vote Yang, Blake, or abstain?"

Blake's hand went up.

"Ah, loyalty between partners," Yang said, feigning swooning with her hand over her heart. "Oh, you. You're so precious."

"You owe me."

"Right, well, tiebreaker round, Weiss is confirmed for the doubles, so… it's between me and Yang," Ruby said. "Place your bets!"

"Has your team decided who to send yet?" Vengarl asked Jaune. The rest of his team was either watching team Ruby's antics, or discussing something inane with Nora, or just… being Nora.

Vengarl still didn't quite know what to make of her.

"Hmm? Oh. Pyrrha, obviously, with either Nora or Ren. We'll see what the other teams are capable of first."

"Not you?" Vengarl asked, an eyebrow raised.

Jaune laughed awkwardly and rubbed the back of his head. "That's flattering, but… they're better than me. I'm not an idiot."

"Good. You know what you're capable of."

"I'm not sure if that's a compliment or not."

"Take it as one." He'd seen plenty of overconfident Hunters die – or almost die – to their own foolishness. He'd been in the 'almost' category, thankfully. "Make no mistake. You've improved. You'll go far, Jaune."

He scratched the back of his head. "Well… that's good, then, right?"

"Naturally."

"Right."

Yang poked her head up from amongst her team. "Yo, gramps, what's the training schedule during the tournament?"

"We take time off, you dunce," Weiss said. "We don't want to deplete our auras before the match."

Vengarl cleared his throat. "I'll be out of town, actually," he said.

"Uh… what?" Ruby asked.

"Sir – Vengarl, sorry – it's the Vytal tournament," Pyrrha said, "for the treaty of Vytal: for the end of the Great War." Her meaning was implied: _for the end of the war_ you _fought in_.

"I'm going north," he said, "tonight. On business."

"But-"

"Some people aren't happy with the way a conflict resolves," Blake said, cutting Ruby and Nora off. "Others aren't happy that the conflict occurred at all, and don't wish to be reminded of it." Her eyes met Vengarl's, and her question was clear. _Am I right?_

Vengarl nodded. "My thoughts on the Vytal tournament are complicated, to say the least. I'll be glad to miss it. But I'll keep an ear out for your victories."

"Unless Sun sells you out," Nora muttered sidelong to Blake, nudging her on the arm.

"Yes, unless Sun sells us out," Blake deadpanned.

Vengarl restrained from rolling his eyes. But his expression soon turned grave, and he reached back to the bleachers behind him to grab a blue coat. "Jaune," he said, "this is yours."

There was no grand ceremony, nor no great speech. Jaune – who was only sitting next to him, after all – soon had the coat in his lap. "What is it?"

"It was Joseph's," Vengarl said, "and now it is yours. Do what you will with it."

He seemed uncertain, holding it up and inspecting it curiously. "Uh… so should I wear it?"

"If you want."

Yang seemed as though she wanted to say something, but despite the informality of it all she sensed that it was a sincere moment for the two of them and remained silent.

"I… I don't know what to say."

Vengarl shrugged. "You inherited Crocea Mors from him, didn't you? That coat is no different – it just took longer for it to reach you. It's not a gift. It's a birthright."

He shifted uncomfortably, but nodded. "Thanks?"

Vengarl had to admit he'd have no idea what to say either, in face of that. From his perspective, he was just the messenger delivering a rightful inheritance. He was doing his duty and nothing more. But from Jaune's perspective, he supposed, he was bestowing some kind of honour.

Vengarl wasn't sure if it'd make things more or less awkward, but he simply stood, nodded to them in farewell, then made to depart.

"Gramps!" Yang called, and despite himself he turned back. They were all watching him, Ren and Blake with their quietly calculating yet friendly gazes, Yang and Ruby and Nora and Jaune with hope, Weiss and Pyrrha with respect. He'd only been with them for a short time, but it felt _good_. They'd learned from him, and soon his teachings would be put to the test. It occurred to him that he was getting sentimental as all hell, or maybe he'd _always_ been sentimental and forgotten, but _damn_ teaching could be fulfilling.

Jaune would go far. They'd all go far, relics and maidens and immortals be damned. Hopefully they'd live to a ripe old age as he had. Maybe they'd do even better than he and grow old together as friends and family. He breathed deeply, and with all his will he dismissed the tear forming in his left eye.

"Thank you," Jaune said, more confidently this time.

Vengarl nodded sharply, then turned on his heel and left.

/-/

"Don't you dare."

"Hey, this one isn't even a secret," Artorias grinned. "You were on an international broadcast."

Winter pinched the bridge of her nose, then slumped down into her desk chair. "I'm well aware of that."

Artorias picked up the tulip where she'd thrown it on the floor then twirled it between his fingers. "So, it's still going on the list?"

"The list?"

"Things you won't let me mention. Like the b-"

"Yes, it's going on the list!" Winter snapped. Artorias set the flower down on the desk before her. She looked up at him to find him smirking. "Fine," she said, "get it all out now. But never again."

"Oh, Winter – you have nothing to be ashamed of, you were just serving your kingdom! Think of all the people you've made feel safe and happy, and think of all the-" he noticed her scowl deepening, and he paused to rethink his joke. "Think of all the small children you've frightened today," he said.

"Are you finished?"

He tapped his chin in thought. "Gaudy colours don't suit you?"

"I'm glad we agree."

"Alright then," Artorias said, satisfied, "I'm done." He took a seat across from her. "What's the plan?"

"Unless you know any other underground contacts, we're scraping the bottom of the barrel," she said.

"The immigration office?"

"The Valean immigration office," she corrected. "Atlas' is far more strict – and far more observant."

"Oh, look at my kingdom, we're so cool – we even have _flowers_ ," he mocked. She gave him a look that could wither gods – even the real ones, if Artorias had to guess. He cleared his throat and changed the topic. "So, think I could pass as an immigrant?"

"Maybe," she said, eyeing him suspiciously. "Why?"

"I could go undercover?"

"You don't need to- why would you?"

"I'm just trying to spice things up."

She let out a long sigh. "Change of plans. _I'll_ go to the immigration office. You'll make the rounds to the gates – yes, all of them – and speak with the staff. Make some contacts; if they see anything suspicious, they're to contact you immediately."

He shrugged. He could manage that. "Sure," he said.

"Good," she said, rising to her feet. "I won't keep you busy over the weekend. I'm sure you've got plans to make for the tournament."

"Oh, right. You don't know team Harvest, do you?"

She rolled her eyes at him. "I'd be sorely disappointed if you needed my help against them."

"That bad, huh?"

"I've no idea," she said. "I'm sure I _could_ access their files, but I've never seen the need to and I don't see one now. Your team is among Shade's best; I'm sure you can handle them."

"Oh. Right. Just a moment." He reached into his pouch of dust, where he'd nestled a little wooden orb Gough had given him. "Speaking of my team, Gough made this for you," he said, passing it to her.

"That's… sweet of him."

"I think he's doing one for just about everyone. He likes to keep his hands busy."

"Hmm." She turned it over in her hand, and froze solid when she saw the carving; the Schnee family crest overlaid by an intricately carved flower.

Artorias grinned wickedly at her. "He has a great sense of humour too."

Her fist clenched around the carving so hard he thought it might crack. "Mention this to _nobody_ ," she repeated.

/-/

It was early the next morning when Emerald found herself at Sulyvahn's door. She could hear voices within; one was Sulyvahn's, but the other she couldn't place, though it seemed familiar. After another moment's pause, she knocked.

"Come in."

She entered. Sulyvahn was rising to his feet from where he'd been kneeling before a makeshift altar; a small glass statue of a bloated man, crowned with gold, placed atop a little wooden pedestal. Next to him was a man in the coat of a specialist, and it took Emerald a second to remember his name: Vordt.

"Miss Sustrai," Sulyvahn greeted. "It's good to see you."

Fat chance.

"What do you want?" she asked. She was in no mood for niceties, no matter how dangerous Cinder said Sulyvahn was. He didn't seem perturbed by her bluntness, however.

"Vordt?"

The specialist nodded and made his way to the table to grab a little metal container. He passed it to Emerald; uncertainly, she glanced up at Sulyvahn, who nodded to her to open it. Within, held firm in foam, were two white orbs, perhaps as big as the tip of her little finger. "What are these?"

"Hard to come by," Sulyvahn said, "at least without proper clearance."

"They're cameras," Vordt explained. "Atlas tech." He went on to explain the details; they were aura activated, with a strong adhesive, and small enough to be nigh undetectable by those who didn't know what to look for.

"Where do you want me to put them?" Emerald asked.

"Ozpin's office," Sulyvahn said. Emerald's mouth twisted. If she were caught… Well, that was what her semblance was for. That was _why_ she'd been chosen for the job. "I want a clear view of the entrances and exits, and of his desk. And I _don't_ want those cameras to be found. I'm sure you can manage that. He's in a meeting with the council currently so his office is clear, but we thought it would be best to send you – just in case. Any questions?"

Any questions he'd be willing to answer? Probably not. She shook her head.

"Good," Sulyvahn said. "Leave us."

It rankled a little to be dismissed so easily, but she didn't let her pride get in the way. She'd rather be in anybody else's company than Sulyvahn's; she'd just rather do it on her own terms. Oh well.

Once she was out in the hall – and after going down a few hallways besides, then ducking into an abandoned classroom, she took her scroll from her pocket and unmuted it. "Did you get all of that?"

Cinder nodded. _"The design documents for the cameras are on Atlas' files,"_ she said. _"No audio… hmm. How odd."_ Cinder's brow furrowed in thought, but she quickly moved on. _"They're a new development. They don't transmit through the CCT, however – I won't be able to view them unless we can get the virus on the device they're transmitting to."_

Emerald sighed. "By we you mean me." It was a statement, not a question. For a moment, Emerald missed the days where her hardest task was pretending to be friends with Ruby 'the happy' Rose. Now she was bugging the offices and scrolls of some of the most dangerous people in the world.

Where had it all gone so wrong?

" _Thank you for volunteering,"_ Cinder said sweetly. _"You'll likely need access to Sulyvahn's scroll or his terminal. You don't have to do it immediately; I understand he is immune to your semblance."_

"Apparently so," Emerald muttered darkly – and she still wasn't quite sure why.

" _Hmm… we'll make an opportunity soon,"_ she said. _"For now, follow orders. Plant the cameras. Don't draw suspicion from the pontiff."_

Whether she could use her semblance on him or not didn't matter – she wasn't some rank amateur. She'd manage. "Of course," she said, then ended the call.

/-/

 _This is it, friend. Everything we've been fighting for._

 _Her?_

 _She made her choice. We've made ours._

 _But she was innocent, in a way. Poor girl. It shouldn't have ended like this. But he let things grow and grow until they got out of control. The prison. The plan. You. I'll certainly remember the poor girl until the end of days, though I'll never regret her death. I hope you won't either._

 _It doesn't matter. You and me – nothing can stand in our way. Not strength, for sure, and clearly not innocence either. A simple soul – I wonder who she'd condemn more? Him? Or us? Maybe if she knew what she was giving up. Maybe if she knew how she'd been manipulated._

 _It's time to go. Thank you, Salem. If you would do me the honour, allow me to be a true friend, always. It won't be long now before I know everything. Who I was, what I lived for, and what my name was. Names are strange things though, aren't they? Arbitrary sounds for this person or that, chosen for us before we even have a sense of self._

 _Not me, though. I'll choose my own name. Maybe I'll prefer the old one – if I even remember it – but hey! Options are nice either way, you know?_

 _How about… Lapp?_

 _Yes. Lapp. I like it._

* * *

 **We're finally moving on to actual V3 content next chapter. Have I mentioned that there were only supposed to be three chapters between V2 and V3? Lapp's monologues were supposed to end at the finals, not at the beginning of the tournament.**

 **Oh well.**

 **But yes, Lapp's monologues conclude here.**

 **In two weeks' time, I'll be busy as all hell, so to avoid a three week break the next chapter'll be out in a week. Like I said, I'll be moving back to a weekly update schedule come November, but for now I need to be a little flexible.**

 **Next chapter - October 13th.**


	29. Chapter 28: Round One

**It turns out I had far more on my plate than I thought. Sorry.**

* * *

Emerald muttered angrily to herself as she swiped her scroll over the keypad locking Councilman Sulyvahn's room. Why did it have to be her? They all knew he'd be elsewhere: specifically at Amity to watch the first fight. Most likely, he was in the VIP box with the Valean councilmen. It certainly seemed like his scene. If his room were unoccupied, she wouldn't have to use her semblance.

And besides, if he came back early it wasn't like she could use her semblance on him. Why couldn't it be Mercury, or hell, even Neo?

The keypad flashed red, and the image of a chess piece appeared. The door clicked open, and, after checking the corridor one last time for observers, she slipped inside.

"Oh! Ah… I was expecting someone else?" It wasn't Sulyvahn's voice, that much was clear. But in checking behind her, she'd forgotten to check in front of her, and now somebody had already seen her. That wasn't good. Grimacing, she looked up.

"You're not a cleric, are you?" asked the man, who she found bent over Sulyvahn's terminal, a guilty look on his face. He was bald, with slanted narrow eyes and an angular face. He didn't seem at all the type to have business at Beacon; she could see no weapon, and he was clothed like a civilian anyway. Still, something about him suggested confidence.

"No?" Emerald guessed.

"Well, uh, I was here for a confession," said the man. "So… if you're not a cleric, you're not needed."

"That's why I'm here too," she lied, before realising how stupid it was to try lying when _clearly_ this guy was lying just as much as she. Besides, as far as she knew, confessions weren't a practice of the Church of the Deep anyway.

"But how'd you get in here?" asked the man.

"How'd _you_ get in here?"

A wide grin spread on his face, tempered by a guilty shrug. "You got me," he said. His eyes flickered back down to the terminal, and his hands flew across the keys. A moment later, he ejected his scroll and pocketed it. "All done," he said. He grabbed a tissue and wrote something on it. "You're on Black's team, right?"

"Mercury?"

"That's the guy, yeah." He offered her the note. "Tell Cinder dearest to call me," he said. "Preferably some time before four in the afternoon and twelve at night. Or after, works too, though I do like my beauty sleep."

"Why?"

"Because I don't want to get fired. Speaking of which—let's keep this little break-in between us, alright?" He winked knowingly, then laughed. "Have a wonderful day," he said cheerily, offering a quick wave, then he pushed past her towards the door. A moment later, he was gone, and Emerald was left feeling a little bewildered by the absurdity of it all.

She shook her head to clear her thoughts, then looked down at the tissue. A number was written on it, followed by a single name: Lapp.

/-/

"Dust?"

"Bloody hell, Gil, I'm not an idiot. I'm prepared."

"Good."

Artorias adjusted the strap on his pauldron and flexed the fingers on his left hand, feeling his shield-gauntlet move around them. The mechanical parts were relatively non-intrusive, but it was still important to acclimate to the gauntlet's movements.

"Dagger?"

"Very funny, C. Keen for the crowd?"

"I've done this before. I can handle crowds, Arty. It's strangers that bother me. You know, actually _talking_ to them."

"You've done fine with the first-years," Gough pointed out.

"You didn't see when Blake told me about her books. That girl has a twisted mind, I tell you."

"Blake? Really?" Gough raised an eyebrow. "She's so sweet."

"You don't want to know." Ciaran shuddered. "My point stands. The tourney's here and you still haven't got a new dagger. You might want to get on that."

The doors into the arena opened, and the team stepped out. On the other side of the colosseum, Team Harvest was doing the same, squinting a little from the change of lighting. It hardly bothered Artorias, though.

"Seems a bit late, don't you think?" Artorias asked over the roar of the crowd.

"Just saying."

"Mind if I borrow one of yours?"

"Maybe if you're nice to me."

"How nice?"

" _Really_ nice."

They walked to the middle of the arena. Over the speakers, the announcer's voices blared out, announcing the names of their teams. Artorias cast his gaze over the opposite team

Solaire, the only member Artorias recognised, stood to on the far left, a dust-embroidered handkerchief in one hand and a circular shield in the other. Next to him was a man in a red cloak—Hawkwood Crest—wielding a greatsword not unlike Artorias' own. Then came Ricard, wearing nothing but a kilt and a crown and wielding a long, thin rapier, and after him Rendal, clad in heavy armour from head to toe and armed with a massive shield and a flanged mace.

The terrain roulette began. For the four-v-fours, the battlefield was split in half; for the two-v-twos it would be split in quarters, and the finals wouldn't be split at all, taking place on the central stage with no faux-natural terrain whatsoever. Behind Team Harvest, a desert was raised from below; behind Team Gwyn, a geyser field. "Alright," Ciaran murmured, "we can work with this." The desert was, as students of Shade, technically their 'home field'. However, the danger of the desert only became apparent in prolonged expeditions, not in short-burst fights. It was all too easy to lose one's sense of direction after long weeks alone in the desert, and to become utterly lost among the shifting sands, leading to either insanity or death—neither of which were a real threat in such a short battle.

Still, Vacuans knew nothing if not the desert, and were accustomed to the soft sand beneath their feet. It wouldn't count for much, but it'd at least be _something_ if they could push team Harvest back from the central platform.

"Remember, bulwark strategy," Gilderoy said, drawing his bident and couching it under his right arm. 'Bulwark strategy' was simple enough; Gough would sit back and crush them from afar. Ciaran was to rush their back line. Gilderoy was to intercept anyone going for Gough while Artorias sat front and centre to take their attention. Of course, no plan survived first contact, and so the plan became more of a guideline, but, as always, it provided a starting point.

"Three!"

"Good luck, team," Gough said.

"Two!"

"We won't need luck," Artorias scoffed.

"One!"

"Don't get cocky," Ciaran said.

"Begin!"

/-/

"We could end up against either of them," Weiss said. "Don't just _watch_ ; analyse!"

" _Boring"_ , Yang drawled. Not that the fights themselves were boring, but actually breaking down the nitty-gritty of it? Nah. Not worth it. Instead, she watched as Artorias battled Hawkwood and Rendal in the middle of the arena. It occurred to her that she hadn't really seen him fight a human opponent before. She found herself enjoying the spectacle; his style was half brawling, half swordplay, pushing and pulling (and sometimes simply punching) his opponents with his free off-hand to keep them distracted while doing the real damage with his sword. It wasn't a complete domination, however; Hawkwood was giving him some trouble, taking on a nimbler approach that could duck and weave and backstep away when Artorias was too aggressive and landing one or two solid hits while his attention was on Rendal.

Meanwhile, Solaire and Gough had both removed themselves to the backlines of their respective teams. Gough's bow was a familiar sound—first the release, then the heavy impact—but Solaire's lightning bolts were new to Yang. She couldn't see clearly, but she was fairly sure he had nothing more than a handkerchief in his right hand. Whatever it was, it glowed with yellow energy every time he raised it to form long lances of crackling lightning.

Ricard, spotting an opening, dashed past Ciaran, but was knocked aside by a bident halfway across the battlefield. Gilderoy was relentless, giving his opponent no opportunities to safely flee. Ciaran, seeing that Ricard was taken care of, closed the gap on Solaire, who, using his shield as an offensive tool as much as a defensive one, met her blow for blow.

"Team Gwyn's totally got this," Yang said. "Gough's the easiest to drop, and Harvest isn't doing a damn thing about him."

"Good. You're paying attention."

"I'm just enjoying myself," Yang retorted. "So what if I pick up some things along the way? Maybe I'm just clever and observant."

Ruby and Blake snorted.

"Shush, both of you," Yang quipped. "Just because _I'm_ such a good student-"

"I didn't say anything," Blake said.

/-/

Ciaran weaved between the surprisingly fast—but not fast enough—strikes Solaire aimed at her. She'd not expected him to use a shield quite so aggressively, though she was more than capable of handling it.

"Hey," Solaire said, in a brief reprieve. He wore a friendly smile, despite their circumstances. "It's been a while."

"Mm. Still working?"

"Nah." He fended off a flurry of strikes. "I had to study, and then Rendal had us sparring for about twenty-seven hours a day, so I quit."

"That's a shame."

"Well, it was good while it lasted." He aimed for her face with the edge of his shield; she ducked it and scored two solid slashes across his midriff. They hurt his aura less than she'd anticipated, sliding off his chainmail and his tabard, but it was a start. He summoned lightning in his right hand and brought it crashing down on top of her; she danced to the left and dropped low to kick his legs out from under him. He withstood the blow and clipped her with his shield, knocking her off balance, though it did little to her aura. She recovered quickly enough to dodge away from the next lightning bolt—albeit barely.

"You're faster than you look."

Solaire shrugged, though it seemed it was more to keep limber than anything else. "I'm glad to hear it."

Ciaran gave him an odd look. Though she'd certainly meant it as a compliment, he'd taken it strangely. Not badly, just… well, he was odd.

Their battle continued, Ciaran's relentless assault quickly pushing him deeper into the desert. Rarely, she managed to dart past his guard and score some good hits on him, though he was always agile enough to guard the chinks in his armour. And sometimes his shield, swung in wide arcs, was enough to open her guard, and every time he'd take the opportunity to smack her with a lightning bolt. Some were even fast enough to hit, and though they dispersed across her aura they still stung.

"Ooh, that's got to hurt!" Port's voice boomed over the speakers, and Ciaran could vaguely hear beeping to indicate that somebody's aura had dropped below the threshold. "On the receiving end of Mr Iris' bow, Rendal Vermeil is eliminated!" Ciaran winced. That _must_ have hurt.

"Incoming!" Ciaran recognised Gilderoy's voice instantly, but heard two pairs of footfalls behind her. She charged Solaire, sheathing her silver tracer and drawing her revolver. She leapt at him, and, when he raised his shield, jumped off it into a backflip. Ricard was crossing the desert towards them, Gilderoy in hot pursuit. She squeezed off two shots at him—one of which hit him square in the chest, though he deflected the other—before falling back to the ground.

Solaire's shield was coming up to meet her, and she caught its edge in her stomach as she fell. The air rushed from her lungs, and when she hit the sand she rolled twice before managing to find her feet.

"Very flashy," Solaire said.

"I practiced-" she gasped for air- "very hard."

"I can imagine."

She could hear the clash of metal on metal to indicate that Gil had caught up with Ricard, and that he wasn't letting him get away. At the very least, she could focus on Solaire again without worrying about a sword in her back. "Mind giving me a breather?"

He spread his arms—and, more importantly, let down his guard—to shrug. "Sor- heck!" She fired off the remainder of her bullets, and, perfectly timed, a massive arrow came flying past her. It slammed into Solaire's shield as he brought up just in time, and he was sent flying backwards over the dunes. He wasn't quite out of the arena, but he was close.

"Sorry," Ciaran said, only a little sincerely, and far too quietly for him to hear. She holstered her revolver, drew her silver tracer, and gave chase.

/-/

Artorias caught Hawkwood's blade on his own and twisted, reaching in and grabbing his opponent by the arm. A strong tug brought Hawkwood tumbling closer, and a well-placed foot sent him falling towards a geyser, mere moments before it erupted. Hawkwood, to Artorias' surprise, threw himself into the fall, embracing the unexpected movement, and came up behind the geyser. For a brief moment, their vision was obscured by a column of scalding water and steam, then it dissipated.

"Nice," Artorias said approvingly.

Hawkwood said nothing, instead dragging a cleaning cloth over his blade—no, it wasn't for cleaning. There was a gem of burn dust within, and when he drew the blade free it burst into flame. For the first time, it seemed Hawkwood was truly smiling, though it was a small one that didn't last long at all.

Artorias re-engaged, sure to set the tempo of their duel. He dove beneath Hawkwood's flaming sword and, tearing a handful of dust crystals from his pouch, punched his foe in the gut. Ice formed around his hand, and around Hawkwood's midriff, and, not expecting the weight, they fell to the ground, Hawkwood's sword extinguishing only moments after he'd lit it. Artorias slammed the pommel of his sword into Hawkwood's nose once, twice, a third time before the ice shattered. A fist flew up towards Artorias' face, but he leaned to the side and it whistled past harmlessly.

Snarling, Hawkwood shoved Artorias away, dangerously close to a geyser. Artorias rolled to his feet and charged in again, not giving the younger student a moment's reprieve. He grabbed another random dust crystal and this time elected to throw it; Hawkwood batted it aside with his blade and it was pushed skyward by a geyser, exploding in a shower of sparks somewhere above them. A short exchange passed, then they locked blades. Artorias won the contest of strength and shoved Hawkwood's sword aside, his fist flashing out to collide with the younger man's nose a moment later.

Hawkwood's eyes watered, but he didn't give any ground. Instead, he stepped into the blow and rammed his elbow into Artorias' chin. His head snapped back, and he staggered away, rubbing his jaw. Hawkwood followed, face still blank and stoic as before, and raised his weapon. Artorias sent the first strike slanting away, parried the next, then grabbed Hawkwood's wrist as he chambered another blow. He tightened his grip, then yanked hard, pulling Hawkwood into a headbutt.

"Bloody Vacuans…" Hawkwood muttered, staggering away. Aura flickered and sparked, setting his nose straight; it had finally broken from the impact, even through aura. Artorias winced. He'd not meant to be _quite_ so rough.

"I'm from Vale, actually. Sorry."

"Didn't even want to do bloody Vytal, but _nooo_ , Solaire just _had_ to convince us all. Gives me-"

"Ricard Balth is eliminated by Gilderoy Ornstein. With their leader on the edge of the map, and Mr Crest's aura running low, Team Harvest is in serious trouble!" Port's voice boomed.

Hawkwood sighed. "What a sick joke." He hefted his weapon. "Do you mind if I break something in return?"

"I'd really rather you didn't."

"Pity. I need cheering up."

Artorias doubted _anything_ could cheer up this man.

/-/

Artorias clapped Gilderoy on the shoulder as Team Gwyn made their way to the airships off Amity. "Smile for the cameras and all that," he said, not that there were any cameras on them. "Give your oh-so-dear boyfriend a wave—oh, what the hell, I'll do it for you." Spotting Smough coming out from the colosseum, Artorias raised a hand in an overly dainty wave.

"You're the worst," Ciaran said.

"Not taking sides, but do you _really_ have to provoke him right now?" Gough asked.

Artorias ignored them. "Just smile and wave, Gil. What could you possibly do with Vacuo if the public don't like you?"

"Artorias, behave," Gough said, a little more sternly this time. "Don't ruin the day. It's been a good one so far."

"Hey, hey, I'm making a point," Artorias said. "And not even a bad one. I'll shut up now, I swear."

"Doubt it," Ciaran muttered.

"It _is_ a good point, actually," Gilderoy acquiesced. "I've been thinking about that a bit, actually," he said, following not far behind. "Especially over the past week. There's been a _lot_ of reading."

"Reading? I- about Vacuo?" Artorias asked.

"About King Vendrick, mostly." King Vendrick had been the second-to-last monarch of Mistral, peacefully coming into power _and_ regaining Mistrali independence after a generation of vassalage beneath Mantle. While the decades of vassalage had established such strong trade between the two kingdoms that it had been beneficial—even lucrative—to maintain ties with the northern kingdom (thus laying the foundation for their alliance in the Great War), Vendrick was still a beloved figure in Mistral's history.

It was his rise to the power that interested Gilderoy—not that he had any intention of reinstating any monarchies, but Vendrick's rise to power paralleled some of Gilderoy's own goals.

Though, judging from the way Ciaran's eyes lit up at the mention of Vendrick, he suspected he'd just poked a hornet's nest.

"Nice one, mutt," said Smough, walking over to them. Gilderoy was suddenly sure he'd rather listen to Ciaran ramble about historical figures than be privy to this particular conversation. There was still a chance Smough would be amiable, but Artorias…?

"Nice what?"

"Don't push it. That was a compliment." Smough's previously purposeful tone dropped away quickly, and it became clear to Gilderoy that he had absolutely no idea how to be nice to Artorias. "Take it however you want."

But at least he was _trying_ to play nice. Artorias seemed puzzled. "Who are you and what did you do with Smough?"

Smough closed his eyes, breathed out heavily through his nostrils, then opened his eyes again. "Uh… good afternoon," he said, nodding awkwardly to Ciaran. She too looked utterly confused by Smough's relative cordiality.

"Hi?" she said uncertainly.

"I think I need a drink," Artorias muttered. "I'm gonna-"

"I'm coming with you," Ciaran said, already three steps ahead of him and making her way towards the colosseum docks.

"Are you alright, Smough?" Gough asked, placing a hand on his brother's shoulder.

"Mm. Don't worry about it." He shook himself, and the moment seemed to pass. "You both did well," he said.

"And Artorias too, apparently," Gough commented, raising an eyebrow. Gently mocking humour was written all over his face.

Smough grimaced, then nodded, the action seemingly forced out of him. "Look, I'm a changed man or something, alright?"

"A changed man," Gilderoy quoted. "Elegantly put."

"Starting change with Artorias," Gough mused. "Good luck. I'm proud of you for trying, though."

"Alright, alright, let's just forget it, alright?" Smough said. "Didn't you say you were going to help… Penny, wasn't it? Before her match?"

"Mm-hmm. I'll meet you at our seats?"

"Sure," said Smough. "What's she need help with, anyway? She doesn't have some ridiculously complex weapon, does she?"

"He's painting her nails," Gough said, chuckling.

"I'm painting her nails for her," Gilderoy confirmed.

Smough, not for the first time today, seemed unsure of what to say. "Uh-"

"Oh, right, I still need to do a carving for her." He patted down his pockets. "Do you have a knife, Smough?"

"Not for whittling, no."

"Hey, I'll see you in there," Gilderoy said. "I'll ask Penny's team. One of them might have one."

"Oh. Thanks."

Smough stooped down so Gil could give him a brief peck on the cheek, then Gil departed in search of Penny, hearing their discussion over the value of knives for purposes other than whittling fade behind him.

/-/

" _Ah, Cinder! Hello there."_

Lapp had answered her call, though he'd refrained from showing his face, leaving it audio-only for the time being.

"You've taken an interest in Sulyvahn?" Cinder asked.

" _A passing interest, for the time being. Did Emerald find anything?"_

Cinder chose not to answer that. In addition to allowing her to view the camera feeds, the virus gave her access to all of Sulyvahn's files. Nothing was particularly damning just yet, though she'd barely scraped the surface. "What were you looking for?" she asked.

" _He has something on you. Blackmail?"_

Cinder didn't respond.

" _He's not coercing you, is he_ _? What in the world could...? Bah. It doesn't matter what he has over you. What matters is what he_ wants _from you."_

"What's your stake in this?"

" _A favour for a friend, in this case."_ He muttered something under his breath before continuing. _"Don't pay it any mind at all. None whatsoever. Don't worry, though. I have nothing against you, dear. Not yet."_

"You're not doing much to convince me."

" _Look, for the most part I hate blackmail- oh, who am I kidding? And besides, this is for your own good. I have that file, remember? The file that's not on Ozpin's desk right now? That one. What does Sulyvahn want from you?"_

Cinder grimaced. "He wants power," she hedged. She couldn't be quite sure how much he knew about-

" _The Maiden's power? What an asshole. He's rich; he could just get a sex change operation. Do you think that'd work?"_

Cinder took a moment to compose herself. "He's a bit old," she said, not sure what else she could say.

" _True. Maybe if he moisturised more he'd be eligible. Well, at least he can't easily kill you for it."_ He paused, and audibly hummed to himself. _"You don't have the power yet, do you?"_

"No."

" _But you will soon, and he wants your loyalty before then. Does he have it?"_

Cinder paused, weighing her options. She was loyal to herself first, and always would be, but she had no plans of turning her back on Salem. But what she was or wasn't going to do didn't matter; Lapp had something to hold over her head, so she needed to say what he wanted to hear. She wasn't quite sure what that was. It was clear he didn't like Sulyvahn on grounds of suspected treason, but he also clearly didn't like Raime, Salem's most loyal servant (save maybe Tyrian). Did that point to some opposition to Salem herself? She couldn't say for sure without knowing _why_ he hated Raime.

But then, as he'd put this was for her own good. So, perhaps the truth was the best response.

"He does not."

" _Good. Good."_ He sighed loudly. _"I don't like Sulyvahn,"_ he said, and though his delivery was almost juvenile it seemed at the same time a damning condemnation.

"Or Raime?"

" _Or Raime. But that's personal, not professional… kind of. Look, it's complicated. I like Sulyvahn less, though, and for more important reasons. Although… hmm. How much sway do you have over Sulyvahn?"_

"I'd say he needs me, though I'm not sure what for. He says he owes me a favour, at the very least."

" _A conditional favour, I'm sure. And what are your thoughts on Raime? Don't mince words, I hate him too."_

Cinder frowned, puzzled. "Why do you-"

" _Look, do you want to fuck with Raime or not? That's basically what I want to know. Do you care about Raime at all?"_

Well, he was _kinda_ important to Salem, and Salem was kinda important to her, but it wasn't like she didn't plan to screw him over, even if that plan was born of Lapp's blackmail in the first place. "Not really."

" _Well, good. You and I, I do believe we can fuck them both five ways to Sunday and you'll come out of it smelling like roses—well, whatever flower Salem likes best. I think she prefers orchids."_

"Orchids aren't flowers," Cinder said offhandedly. "I already-"

" _Not now, shush! I'm scheming."_

"Don't shush me!" Cinder said, a little more heatedly than she'd intended. She hadn't even met him in person, but she could just _tell_ he'd have an extremely punchable face. She sighed. "I already have a plan."

" _Right, right, very good. Ooh, but think of how_ I _could improve on it. They don't call me the Trickster for nothing, you know."_

"I sincerely doubt anybody calls you that."

" _Forgive me, but I'm going to shush you again. Except I'm not, because I want to hear that plan. Shush on the rudeness, un-shush on the plan, okay? Let's hear it."_

/-/

"Oh, uh, well, I- how to put this, _good morning_ ," Artorias mocked.

Ciaran shook with hardly contained laughter. Some of the other passengers on the airship back to Beacon gave them strange looks, but Artorias paid them little heed, and it seemed neither did Ciaran, distracted as she was by his crude mockery of Smough. It wasn't for another five minutes, after they'd touched down at Beacon, that she finally regained the ability to speak clearly.

"You're terrible," she wheezed. "He could have just been genuinely nice to you."

"Yeah, but it's _Smough_. I mean, come on. He's only ever nice to Gil, and that's like… pseudo-nice."

"And Gough."

"Everyone's nice to Gough. That doesn't count." Something about that made her snicker again. "What? How is _that_ funny?"

"It's not, just—nevermind." She took a few deep breaths. "Alright. I'm good. I never thought I'd take his side, but don't be so mean to Smough. It's bad for my lungs."

"That's a win-win." She punched him on the arm. "Okay, I deserved that."

They reached the courtyard in front of Beacon tower, and the statue loomed over them. "Gods, I need a shower," Ciaran muttered. "There should be showers at Amity, really. You know, for the combatants."

"Strange that they never thought of that."

"It's not like they could realistically add it after it was built. Could you imagine how expensive it would be to renovate a floating colosseum?"

"A floating colosseum intended to house the world's biggest gladiatorial event," he corrected. "They can afford it. They're just stupid, or maybe they're just really cheap. Or lazy, actually—the paperwork _really_ sucks."

"I can imagine." She smiled a little, then shook her head. "I'm going for a shower."

"I'm going for lunch. Want me to bring you anything?"

"Now that's just suspicious. No mustard, okay?"

"No promises."

"Well, be sparing with it, at the very least." She set off towards the east wing, lazily waving to him over her shoulder as she left.

Artorias' face fell, and he glanced around. There weren't many people in the courtyard, and most were preoccupied in other conversations. He started making his way towards the cafeteria before ducking off into an alcove between two buildings. He pulled out his scroll, and composed a short message:

 _OZ SAYS YOU DYE YOUR HAIR._

He didn't have to wait long for a response:

 _June_

 _Team: _ _ _ __

 _MSG: WE'LL TALK AFTER VYTAL._

A little more than a week, then. Not too long. What could go wrong in a week? And besides, he knew _half_ the important stuff. Ozpin had told him where the relic of Choice was kept, and, more importantly, how to reach it. But, as for his other duty… well, he really had to talk to June about that. Ozpin hadn't known what to look for to find June's reincarnation, should she die. Some habits, he'd explained, were retained over all reincarnations—like letter-writing for the other immortal, who he'd spoken little about.

But Ozpin didn't know what June would retain. He'd only met her in two lives.

As long as June didn't die within a week, _everything_ would be fine.

/-/

The clocks were striking eleven at night when Cinder Fall entered the Church of Many Faiths. Like most cities, Vale had only a small religious demographic split between a number of different religions, and so it was difficult for each church to build their own houses of worship. Instead, about a year after the House of Dreams burned down, they'd all come together to build a place where they could all worship their separate deities and idols under the same roof.

It was here, she knew, that she could find Sulyvahn. While during the day the church was open to all, at night it was reserved for sermons, masses, and other such religious rituals. On Monday and Thursday nights the church was given over to the Deep. As the Pontiff's first official visit to Vale since his appointment to the position, it was widely known amongst the Church of the Deep that he'd be delivering a sermon.

The great doors to the church were left slightly ajar, and Cinder slipped through. It was quiet inside, almost abandoned save for the Pontiff and one last civilian, speaking in hushed tones at the front of the church. She'd arrived at a good time, then; she had no interest in listening to Sulyvahn preach to his flock of sheep. Artificial light shone on the stained-glass windows, the brightest being the effigy of Saint Aldrich: a portly man in white robes. In his right hand, blood spilled from a golden chalice; in the other, he held a black book. Cinder found his smile unsettling. Rows upon rows of pews stretched towards the front of the church. Atop the altar was a golden chalice.

A chill ran through her. Her footsteps echoed on the stone floor as she walked towards the Pontiff.

He looked up at the sound. He said something to his devotee, who, after bowing to the Pontiff, made his way down the aisle towards the exit. "Partake in peace," he murmured as he brushed past.

"Partake in peace," she responded, her teeth gritted.

She came to a halt at the steps leading up to the altar. Sulyvahn came down to meet her. "I don't suppose you're here to give yourself to the Deep."

"No." Her eyes flickered to one of the dark hallways leading to rooms behind the altar. "Vordt isn't here, I take it?"

Sulyvahn's eyes darkened. "No. He… departed after a meeting with Polendina. I'll be most interested in hearing his report upon his return. What business do you have with him?"

"I don't," Cinder said. "Raime is in Vale. He wants to meet with you."

"With me?" Sulyvahn frowned. "He contacted you to reach me?"

"He doesn't like me."

"He doesn't like me either." Sulyvahn stroked his chin.

"It's because he knows about your plans."

"My plans?" Sulyvahn said, raising an eyebrow. "I don't know what you mean."

"I'm not stupid."

He was silent for a moment. His brow furrowed in thought. At last, he said, "Do you know what Saint Aldrich feared most?"

"Do you know how little I care for your faith?"

"Aldrich feared death: a fairly rational fear, all things considered. And so, he sought the power to conquer death. When he found it, his fear did not leave him."

"If he conquered death, why does he have a grave?"

"I _would_ be elated that you're taking an interest, but I know you just want to undermine my argument. He watches. He waits. One day, when death is truly no more, he will return to lead us to a new age," he said. His face showed no signs of joy at the words, or even hope. There was a bitterness to his voice, and a slight growl as though from anger. "Though Aldrich conquered death, he continued to fear it. And, like Aldrich, though Salem conquered her cage, she fears it more than anything. It is why she is unfit to lead."

Cinder paused, more for effect than anything. She didn't care what Salem feared. She cared what Salem offered her; power, and a chance to wield it. A chance to change the world. Salem had not once ever lied to her, not out of stupidity but out of trust. "I don't care," Cinder said, sticking with the truth. "If you want my loyalty, you'll need to offer me more than threats." Or, more accurately, she had to pretend to put up resistance to make the lie more convincing.

"Power—but that's already within your grasp. Salvation—but you care not for such things. I simply believe I am more fit to carry out Salem's goals than Salem herself."

"And Aldrich," Cinder said. It had just clicked. He was comparing Salem and Aldrich for more than one reason. "You see Aldrich as a coward. You want to take his place."

He smiled. Cinder flexed the fingers of her left hand, feeling the muscles cramp from the cold. With her right hand, she ended her scroll's recording. "I need Creation," said Sulyvahn. "Salem wants it left here for later recovery not because it is of any real danger to us, but because she is afraid."

"Of her cage?"

"Aye. The Ringed City, it was called." He shook his head. "I digress. I have been honest with you now. Coercion aside, do I have your loyalty?"

She hesitated, breathed deeply, looked him in the eye, then lied. "Yes."

He looked back, his mouth set in a thin line. "Good," he said. "Now—what makes you say that Raime knows of my… ambitions?"

"You do him too little credit. You've hardly hidden your presence in Vale: he knows you're here, and he knows that your assigned relic is-"

"It is also here," Sulyvahn dismissed. "Not within my grasp just yet, but I was able to have its location moved so as to not draw suspicion from Salem, should she hear of it."

"Does Raime know that?"

"Touché. But I also doubt his first conclusion would be treachery. I'm not sure he thinks it's _possible_ for anyone to betray his oh-so-precious queen." He hummed in thought. "When and where does he want to meet?"

"Tomorrow, at noon. Auxiliary aircraft hangar twelve."

"Is this hangar safe?"

"Maybe. It was in use by the White Fang, last I heard, but they must have abandoned it after the Breach." They'd _better_ have abandoned it. Lapp had assured her that it was empty, but she wouldn't put it past him to throw the Fang into the fray for his own amusement. Lapp had _also_ assured her that he could get into contact with Raime, which she'd found hard to believe given their apparent animosity. Worst-case scenario, they'd just set up Sulyvahn to be ambushed by the White Fang...

Or for the Schnee and the wolf faunus to find the two of them conspiring. Lapp _had_ been in contact with them, after all.

How could that loop back to her? Raime, if he even let himself be taken alive, would never talk. Sulyvahn was another matter, but if they came to blows he'd be seen as at odds with the Fume Knight, thus eliminating him as a suspect for conspiracy. If not… well, she could be in trouble, particularly so soon. It wasn't that she didn't want Sulyvahn to go up in smoke, but if he talked he could blow her cover.

 _Damn Lapp..._

"Hmm. I see why Vordt would be useful. You'll be indisposed, correct? You have your match."

"Mm-hmm."

"A shame. I'll hardly be without backup." He fidgeted with an onyx ring on his right hand.

"Can your pet speak?"

"My Dancer? No. I'm afraid I've taken that from her. A shame in this instance, to be sure, but I assure you it's an improvement. I'll attend this meeting in person." He turned back to the altar, waving a hand dismissively. "I have a lot to ponder, and I have a vigil to keep. We'll speak soon."

Cinder nodded, and made her way back out of the church. Though the night was cool, the moment she stepped outside she felt warmth return to her. She looked back through the doors, brow furrowed. Something always felt _off_ when she was around Sulyvahn.

She shook it from her mind and made her way back to the Vale airdock. The final Bullhead back to Beacon for the night departed not long before midnight; she had about half an hour.

It was only after her Bullhead reached the Beacon landing pads that she sent the recording to Lapp.

Her pilot waved to her from the cockpit as she walked up the path to Beacon.

/-/

 _To the Sovereigns of Vale and Vacuo; and to Chancellor Alonne of Mistral,_

 _I, Malgwyn, declare the sovereignty of the city of Mantle. We shall be self-governed and independent, and will not be subject to any authority save our own. With the lands of Solitas as our domain, we name this realm the Kingdom of Mantle, and with the support of the people I am named king._

 _To the Sovereigns of Vale and to Chancellor Alonne of Mistral,_

 _I bear no ill will to you or your peoples. I ask that you officially recognise our sovereignty and offer you my continued friendship. May our realms prosper in the years to come._

 _To the King of Vacuo,_

 _I offer an ultimatum. Cease all research into the Relics and the Flame. Release my siblings from custody. Recognise the sovereignty of the Kingdom of Mantle. Recognise the vassalage of the isle of Patch to the Kingdom of Vale._

 _Do this, and I will consider the feud between us put to rest._

 _You are all witness._

 _Signed,_

 _Malgwyn_

* * *

 **So, it's almost four in the morning right now. I've been trying to get GWIN v HRVS right all night, and this is how it ended up: mediocre, and cut short. It's almost like RWBY v ABRN, in that there aren't any stakes. You know who's going to win. It's a beat that has to happen, but one that I can't really inject tension into without it just being superficial. It wasn't even worth a full "gives me conniptions". Pfffffffft. I tried to use it to reinforce the brutality of fighting with aura. Yes, people can take more punishment, but if you get hit it'll still hurt, and if you get hit hard enough it has the potential to do serious damage. Problem is, that because aura is a standard for tournament fighting, regulations and rules are far more lax than in real life.**

 **And what sucks is that the intended 4v4 matchup (GWIN v JNPR) was the _entire inspiration for this fic_. Around December last year, I was rewatching RWBY and thought to myself 'what if May Zedong were replaced with Gough from _Dark Souls_?' And thus was born... this. GWIN v JNPR will** **probably show up as an omake for _The Gospel of Lapp_ or _Special Beings_ , once the ball gets rolling for whichever one I write these holidays. I'm still not sure if I'll write both.**

 **Oh, right, Ricard. So, Ricard's DS1 design is super boring. He's basically Oscar, but with Ricard's Rapier. He's kinda boring in DS3 as well, but at least loincloth!Ricard is _memorable_. Of course, I seriously doubt a Huntsman would go into battle wearing only a loincloth, so I took some liberties and made it a kilt. **

**Hmm... what else do I need to talk about? A lot of minor lore: a little Vendrick backstory; Alonne gets namedropped; and the Nameless King sends another letter. I liked the idea of all the religious groups in Vale coming together regardless of their differing beliefs, so I stuck with it. The Church of Many Faiths isn't supposed to be "basically Sulyvahn's boss arena", though it might end up being that... or not. Or will it?**

 **There were two fairly important bombs dropped in the V5 episodes recently, and you should probably be aware of how I'll be handling them. Namely:**

 **a. that only the Maidens can access the relics (which is not a rule I will be following due to the fact a huge amount of backstory + everything to do with the Ringed City relies on that _not_ being true), and**

 **b. Ozpin is cursed by the gods for failing to stop Salem (eh... close enough? I won't be changing the backstory too fit this, but honestly it _kinda_ fits anyway).**

 **It's good to be back, and with uni over I'll (hopefully) be able to go back to the weekly updates.**

 **Next chapter - November 10th.**


	30. Chapter 29: New Challengers

Jaune joined reached the entrance to the arena a little later than the rest of the team. They glanced back at him as he approached. "We're ready for this," he said, more confidently than he felt.

"No coat?" Ren asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Don't mind that."

"I think it'd look good on you," said Pyrrha.

"Eh, I dunno about blue. Look, it doesn't really matter, does it?"

"Nah," said Nora. The gates opened, and they walked out. Nora seemed right at home amidst the crowd's cheers. Surprisingly, so did Pyrrha, though it took Jaune a moment to remember that it made sense. She was a tournament fighter, after all.

Regardless of Vengarl's strange detachment from it all, Jaune _had_ felt truly touched when he'd been presented with his great-grandfather's coat, and had planned to wear it. In fact, he'd tried it on (in private, of course), and despite his excuse now, he didn't mind the look.

But then he'd remembered what Vengarl had said about Joseph Arc. _Do not idolise him._ Perhaps, one day long after graduation, he'd don the coat, but for the time being, with no real achievements of his own, he felt that he'd be cheaply imitating a man he didn't understand. He didn't want that.

Across the arena, Team BRNZ filed out, drawing their weapons.

Jaune breathed deeply, calming himself. "We've got this," he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else.

/-/

"No, no, look—I just need a description," Artorias said, scroll clenched tightly in his hand. "What did he _look_ like?"

" _Pale, dark-haired, well-muscled, short-"_

"I'm gonna-"

" _He had a fox tail, too, so…"_ Artorias' latest contact, a security employee at Vale's northern-most gate, trailed off. The guard in question was a man named Hugo, and had promised (after more monetary compensation than Artorias felt entirely comfortable with) to tell Artorias first should any shady characters pass by.

Apparently, a fox tail was enough to be 'shady'.

Artorias gritted his teeth and shut his eyes. Had it been physically possible, he would have reached through his scroll and choked Hugo. "Anything else?"

" _We confiscated a pocket knife?"_

 _And you couldn't have led with that?_ Not that it made the 'suspect' _any_ more likely to be Artorias' quarry—the Fume Knight—and the description of him being short was particularly unhelpful on that front. But… wait. "A pocket knife? You have to confiscate pocket knives?"

" _Gotta do it with all metal objects, see. Not that the metal was the nasty part. It had a hidden compartment in the handle; he was smuggling drugs."_

Definitely not the Fume Knight, then. "Well, thank you for your help," Artorias bullshitted. "Keep me in the loop, alright Hugo?"

" _Can do."_ The call ended. Artorias considered bashing his head against the wall. _Gods_ , civilians could be frustrating. He'd _told_ Hugo to look for someone of 'average height or taller'. Not 'short'. Not once had he asked to be told of any short people coming in or out of Vale. The Fume Knight, no matter what else he was, was _definitely_ not short.

Artorias cracked his knuckles, rolled his shoulders, then opened the door back into Winter's office. "Sorry about that," he said. "Had to take it."

"Oh?"

"A contact from the royal road gate. Useless, but… well, you know. Gotta listen anyway."

"Hmm." She continued writing in a small notepad. Artorias suspected she was preparing a training plan for Weiss based on mistakes Winter had noticed in the younger Schnee's match. And, speaking of which…

"Where were we? Something about being too readable?"

"Mm-hmm. If you're not going to replace your dagger, you have to train more with a free hand. You weren't using it to its full effect." She set the notepad aside and went back to her terminal, bringing up the recording of his fight.

He settled into the chair across from her, slouching into a position that his back would probably regret in the distant future, but that for the time being was rather comfortable. He'd be here a while.

/-/

"You're late."

"Yes, yes, sorry, but I can't be too careful, you know?"

Raime Marabel regarded the man called Lapp with a measure of disdain. As… useful as he'd proved, he seemed to lack a spine. It was not a quality Raime appreciated.

"You set up the meeting, then?" Of course, the suggestion that Aisling Sulyvahn—as a member of the Atlesian Council—was in a better position to help him than Cinder was a valid point, though one that he'd hardly considered. Cinder would keep her word, of that he felt sure, and so he'd been more-or-less content to wait. But then, yesterday, Lapp had found him, and had convinced him to take the risk.

"Mm-hmm. There's a hangar on the docks. The Pontiff wants to meet there at noon," said Lapp. Lapp was an oddity, and if there were to be any betrayal of trust, Raime expected it to come from him first. Raime had quite successfully managed to hide himself in the slums. Stashing his armour and weapons in the attic of a run-down house, he'd blended right in. He was hiding in plain sight, so to speak. But Lapp had found him anyway, and though he'd approached the Fume Knight in good faith Raime couldn't help but be suspicious.

"Good," said Raime. "If this is a set-up-"

"It's not. Not from me, at least." Lapp said. He sighed. "Look, there's something you should hear." He pulled out his scroll.

"I don't have time for your games, Lapp," said Raime. When they'd met yesterday, the smaller man had tricked him into watching a video of some strange singer claiming that they'd 'never give you up'. The incident had sent Lapp into hysterics. Raime still wasn't sure why.

" _I simply believe I am more fit to carry out Salem's goals than Salem herself. She is unfit to lead."_

Raime's eyes narrowed. "Is that Sulyvahn's voice?" It certainly _sounded_ like the Pontiff.

"Mm-hmm."

 _It's a trap_ , he thought. Anybody who knew Salem's inner circle as Sulyvahn did would know that there would never be any smooth change in leadership while Raime drew breath. "What made him agree to the meeting?"

"I doubt it's a trap, if that's what you're implying. I don't think he knows I was recording."

A heat rose in Raime's chest. His muscles tensed, and his nostrils flared. _Now is not a time to throw accusations_ , he reminded himself. _You need to think about this. You don't want to cause a scene. You're laying-_

"Fetch my armour."

Trap or not, he'd get to the bottom of it.

/-/

"Huh. Those kids weren't half bad."

Qrow Branwen lowered his glass, and his gaze moved lazily from the screen, currently displaying a celebrating Team JNPR, to the bartender in front of him. "Eh." He took another sip of his drink.

/-/

"I'm not sure I understand the difference between a 'boyfriend' and a 'friend'."

 _Why did I think this was a good idea?_ Gilderoy sat between Penny and Smough. Smough was clearly getting frustrated already, though he was showing more restraint than usual.

"Well, uh, a boyfriend—or a girlfriend, if you swing that way—is someone you love in a really big way," Gilderoy explained.

"I love all my friends though," Penny said.

"Platonically, I hope," Smough grumbled.

"Um… yes?" Penny seemed to zone out for a moment, but then said, "The definition of platonic is a relationship that is affectionate but not sexual, but 'sexual' is defined as-"

"You don't need to-"

"-relating to physical attraction. Is hugging not a physical, and therefore sexual act? I'm not sure I'm platonic with my friends anymore."

Smough was at a loss for words. "Uhh…"

"How about we just talk about the tournament?" Gilderoy suggested. "Or something. Anything else, really."

Smough cleared his throat. "Uh… I'm gonna go get popcorn. Should I get one to share?"

"Oh, of course! I too enjoy ingesting popcorn," Penny said.

"…right. I'll be right back," said Smough.

 _Well_ , Gilderoy thought, _there have certainly been worse first impressions._

Down in the arena, Teams SSSN and NDGO filed out, both teams drinking in the cheers and applause.

/-/

"Oh, Sun vs Indigo! I'm not much for gambling, but I put some lien on Team Sun. Been looking forward to it all day," the bartender said.

Qrow did not share his enthusiasm. He tapped the bar. "Another."

The bartender poured. "Any particular match you're waiting on?"

"Not here for the tournament," he said curtly.

"Well, you're here anyway. May as well enjoy it, right?"

Qrow peered down into his drink. "Eh." He sipped at it. "Your boss. 's he annoying?"

"Sometimes. I'm his go-to when another bartender can't make their shift, but at least the pay is good. Why? Your boss give you any trouble?"

"Hmm. Something like that."

"What's the deal, then? Bad hours, bad pay, bad attitude…?"

"Two for three. Not bad."

/-/

"…and your mastery of dust is honestly quite-"

"Shush-sh-sh." Artorias scooted around Winter's desk.

"-pitiful. What's wrong?"

"Look!" He'd seen movement on the tiny window on her terminal that showed the feed from the cameras they'd planted. Lapp had destroyed the cameras in his Bullhead, but hadn't found the ones throughout the hangar. He tapped on it to enlarge it.

There was a person in a hooded cloak—probably a man, based on height and build, but it was hard to tell. On his back was a greatsword forged of bronze, or perhaps brass, with intricate engravings around the crossguard.

"Who the-"

"Let's go," Winter said. She was already halfway to the door, bringing up the feed on her scroll. Artorias stood to follow her. "It's likely not anything, but…" she trailed off, abruptly halting in the doorway.

"What?" He looked back to her terminal.

Another figure had entered the hangar, clad head to toe in heavy black armour. A hunk of stone and dust was strapped to his back.

/-/

"Raime. It's been a while." Sulyvahn stepped forward, offering a handshake.

"Sulyvahn." Raime did not reciprocate. He wasn't quite ready to condemn the Pontiff just yet… but one foot out of line and he'd tear Sulyvahn apart.

Sulyvahn didn't seem perturbed by Raime's animosity. "Why have you called this meeting?"

Raime paced back and forth, trying to channel his anger into his movements. He had to keep a level head. He needed to know for sure before throwing allegations. "General Ironwood's airship," he said. "What do you know of the prisoners on board?"

"There is only one high-profile prisoner," Sulyvahn said, "a man named Roman Torchwick. As I understand it, he is where Cinder wants him to be."

"I'm not talking high-profile," Raime said.

"Then you'll have to be more specific."

Raime paused his pacing. "Lautrec. What do you know about him?"

Raime was not so blind as to miss the subtle twitch at the edge of Sulyvahn's mouth. The Pontiff looked him straight in the eye through the slits of his helmet. "Very little, I'm afraid."

 _Bullshit._

Nodding to himself, Raime said, "He is important to my goal. I would appreciate it if you would look into it."

"And what would I get out of it?"

Typical.

"My gratitude. Such as it is, and not that you want it. We both serve the same queen, do we not? What more do you desire?"

Sulyvahn frowned. "What is it you desire of _me_ , Raime?"

 _He avoided the question._ Not that it was unlike Sulyvahn to do such a thing. Raime resumed his pacing. "Information," he said.

"On Lautrec?"

"Among other things. There's a student following my trail. A wolf faunus with-"

"Are you aware that Vengarl was in town?" Sulyvahn asked, cutting him off. "He departed over the weekend, but he was here."

Raime's fists clenched. "I was not aware," he said.

"I find it strange that you've spent most of your life scared of a once-great man-"

"I do not fear Vengarl."

"-only to so quickly move on to a mere _student_."

Raime's patience snapped. Halting his pacing again, he slammed his foot down, the impact echoing throughout the hangar, and turned to face Sulyvahn directly. "You doubt Salem's leadership. Do you deny it?"

"I wasn't aware you'd accuse me of treason if I upset you."

"Do you deny it?" he repeated.

Sulyvahn thought for a moment, then sighed and reached for his blade. "Never trust a good man, or so the good book tells us."

Raime drew his greatsword. "Aisling Sulyvahn, I sentence you to death."

"Death?" He raised an eyebrow. "You have your own code to live by, Raime. Don't forget it."

"There is a special circle of hell reserved for traitors."

Sulyvahn drew his sword free of its scabbard, twirling the heavy blade lightly in his hands. "Very well. But think, for a moment. Does Salem trust you as much as you trust her? When I survive—and I will survive, for the record—and return to her with my task complete, who do you think she'll believe?"

Raime scoffed. It was a last-ditch attempt, he knew, and a poor one at that. Velstadt had once said much the same, and though his old friend had claimed the victory in that particular duel, Raime had been proven right by history.

The fume greatsword came crashing down, but the Pontiff was deceptively strong, stopping the weapon in its tracks. Their blades locked, and for a moment Raime felt he was winning the contest of strength.

An open palm struck Raime's chestplate, and he stumbled back, finding his footing again quickly. Sulyvahn stayed back, holding his weapon before him, but not engaging. Carefully, they circled each other, watching and waiting for an opening. The world around them seemed to fade into darkness until it was just the two of them, slowly pacing around each other.

Sulyvahn took the initiative. Raime wasn't sure what opportunity he'd presented the Pontiff, and it quickly became apparent that it was simply Sulyvahn's impatience at play, for Raime held off the assault with ease.

That was strange. Sulyvahn was, generally speaking, a patient man.

Their weapons came together again and again. Every blow sent shockwaves throughout the hangar, rattling the roof and causing cargo crates to shudder. Raime was gaining the upper hand—but then he was blindsided by a new contender, struck with enough force to send him crashing through the wall. He rolled on the pavement as he landed, seeing brief glimpses of the building collapsing behind him.

Hopefully it would crush the Pontiff.

From the rubble, a figure emerged. It was not Sulyvahn, but a strange, spindly creature that he could only barely call human. In one hand was clutched a curved, flaming sword. Its footsteps echoed, even in the open air. But suddenly, the air wasn't so open at all. The sky blackened, and the horizon seemed to close in around him.

It stalked closer, leaned forward with ethereal grace… then _screeched_ at him.

/-/

The bartender sighed. "I feel I should cut you off, but hey, it's called a festival for a reason, right?"

Qrow ignored the bartender, choosing instead to gesture slightly more emphatically at his empty glass. The bartender sighed again and obliged. "I'm pretty sure those two were on the news," he said, gesturing up at the screen. Some monkey faunus and his blue-haired friend were flailing about with their weapons. "Yeah, actually, I think-"

"I've been out of town," Qrow said, attempting to shut the conversation down. Gods, couldn't he just drink in peace? "I wouldn't know."  
"Oh. Well, you see, a few months back there was-"

"Shush!" He could hear something. The clash of steel on steel. Might have just been because he was drunk, but… "Do you hear that?"

Deathly silence. The bartender shrugged. "What am I listening for?"

"Hmm. Nothing."

"So, anyway, as I was- wait, I _do_ hear that." And so could Qrow again, and clearer.

 _Should probably deal with that. It's kinda my job._ Qrow downed the drink in one big gulp. "Think you can keep the bar open 'til I'm back?"

"That, uh, depends on when that is."

"No idea." He staggered out of the bar, turned a corner, then leapt skyward, flapping his arms like a loon.

/-/

"They can't have gone far." Winter unceremoniously shoved her scroll from the dashboard in Artorias' general direction, one hand still on the joystick-thingy that controlled her airship. Artorias wasn't quite sure how it worked, but based on how violently she'd yanked it on the take-off, it was fair to assume they were going at more-or-less full speed. "Contact the local po-"

"South!" he called, catching movement out the peripheral window. Without hesitation, Winter pulled on the joystick, the ship lurching around at the movement. Artorias grabbed onto a handhold before he could fall over. He peered out the cockpit, getting a better look this time. Distantly, on the other side of the river, a black cloud billowed along the docks, spilling out into the nearby warehouses and up into the daytime air. Shadows moved within, and a flaming sword shone brightly.

"I won't risk landing in that. Get to the hatch. I'll find a place to land once you're out."

"Doesn't this thing have guns?"

"Why would it- don't worry about it."

He nodded and—continuing to keep a hold of something in case she lurched the ship again—made his way to the back of the ship. The hatch slid open.

He took a deep breath.

They flew over the cloud of darkness.

He dropped.

He drew his sword as he fell and focused his aura beneath him to soften the blow. It would be the difference between his legs being sore and being broken. Not far before he hit the ground, he could have sworn his semblance picked up something, even without him deliberately listening: _"And there goes Ice Queen. Not helping. Again."_

Oddly coherent, and oddly specific. Artorias chalked it up to stress.

His legs buckled as he landed, and he let his weight continue falling into a roll to absorb some of the momentum. When he came up to his feet, he found he could hardly see a thing.

"Fume Knight!" he roared.

Silence; save, perhaps, for a whimper in the darkness he wasn't sure he really heard.

Then, frighteningly loud, a clank. Artorias spun and ducked to the side, narrowly dodging the Fume Knight's sword. The Fume Knight struck once, twice, Artorias blocking both times, then was forced backwards as a bird dived at its face, claws aiming for the slits in his helmet. Both the Knight and the bird disappeared into the fog. Upon hearing the sound of metal on metal—or perhaps on beak, Artorias had no idea—he made to follow them, but another sound caught his ear.

Footsteps. Measured, slow, and echoing. And very much behind him.

He turned, sword held before him. A dark silhouette loomed, curved sword sputtering with flames at its side.

This almost-human creature had been trying to kill the Fume Knight. In fact, he'd seen it strike him just before the feed had gone dead. But a shiver running up his spine told him that no, that didn't mean they were on the same side.

"Stand down," he called.

It hissed, then stabbed at him. He danced backwards. Instincts screamed at him, and he dropped low, the Fume Knight's blade whistling over him from behind.

"Eyes here, pal," someone called. A figure came charging from the darkness, reeking of alcohol. He crashed into the Fume Knight shoulder first, and the two disappeared once more into the fog.

Artorias engaged the creature. Its strikes were slow and methodical and easy to predict, but aside from that its movements were alien and strange. It was not an easy foe to strike. Every action was human-like, but still not exactly human. Its body bent and weaved around his blade like water. Gritting his teeth, he spun past one of its strikes, slamming a shoulder into its torso followed closely by a fist. It staggered back, though its steps somehow remained in time with the inexorable pace it had set.

Another figure crashed into it before it could fully recover, and it stumbled back further. The drunkard flashed a grin. "Bought us some time," he said. "...you're not gonna try to kill me too, are you?"

Artorias shrugged, and the two raised their weapons, unleashing a torrent from which the creature couldn't escape, no matter how much it tried.

Eventually, after what felt like hours but couldn't have been more than a minute, it tripped. Something—someone—cried out in terror, and the creature stumbled, mis-stepped, then it fell off the dock towards the water. But before there was a splash, its finger cut through the air to open a swirling vortex that sucked the darkness from the surroundings. The creature fell through the portal with it—and then it was gone.

Artorias looked down to see what it had tripped on. A man cowered on the ground, wearing a bright yellow hard hat: he was a civilian. "You alright?" asked the drunkard.

The man's eyes widened in terror.

The drunkard rolled one way and Artorias went the other, grabbing the dockworker as he went. A rush of air behind him told him he was lucky to not have been split in half.

"Get out of here!" He shoved the dockworker away. His shield deployed just in time to block the next strike, but it wasn't needed; the drunkard struck the Fume Knight's unprotected back with enough force to send him flying into the wall of a warehouse. Now that he could see properly, Artorias eyed the drunkard warily. He was well-dressed and well-groomed—for a drunkard, at least—and was clearly a Huntsman, based on how intricate his sword was.

The Fume Knight picked himself up, grabbing his weapon from where it had fallen, and drew his smaller blade. "Wolf," he greeted, nodding once.

"Fume Knight," Artorias responded.

"Stupid name," the drunkard murmured.

Artorias faintly heard glyphs lighting up, and, out of the corner of his eye, saw Winter rushing towards them. Good. "Surrender," he said. "Unless you've got a Bullhead in your pocket, you're not getting away this time." Nevermind that, last time, he'd kicked the knight off a roof, and so had handed him an escape route on a silver platter...

"Don't jinx it…" muttered the drunkard.

The Fume Knight's grip tightened, and his stance shifted slightly. Artorias readied himself to defend. But then, the Fume Knight sheathed his weapons. "Very well," he said.

"Incoming!" he heard Winter roar. "Up!"

Artorias looked up.

A giant Nevermore was dropping like a stone towards them, its wings folded tightly at its sides. Artorias twirled his weapon and thrust upwards, but just out of range, the Nevermore spread its wings, turning its plummet into a steep glide. It let out a cry of agony as Winter, already moving quickly towards them, launched herself at it and pierced its side, tearing a long gash through one of its wings, but it still managed to swoop towards the Fume Knight and carry him skyward, sparks flying as the knight's armour scraped along the ground and against a warehouse wall. The drunkard's blade folded down, turning his weapon into a firearm, and he shot three times, though he elicited no reaction from the Nevermore.

The Nevermore flew too high for them to reach, then turned west and flew off, the Fume Knight still clutched tightly in its talons.

"Well done," the drunkard said, "you jinxed it."

* * *

 **That felt like the right place to end the chapter.**

 **I forgot to mention this in the last AN, so here goes: Solaire's weapon. There are a _lot_ of dudes with swords in _Dark Souls_ and I don't want that trend to carry over to _RWBY._ Sure, side characters can be dudes with swords, but for the most part I want important/semi-important characters to have slightly more interesting weapons. So, I decided to ditch the Solaire's sword for now (hint hint kind of not really) and focus more on the Sunlight Talisman (here, it's a dust-embroidered handkerchief). That leaves him without much of a melee weapon, so he's also basically Captain America.**

 **Next chapter - November 17th.**


	31. Chapter 30: Family

" _And nobody was hurt?"_

" _Nah,"_ said the hard-hatted witness. _"Well, Brian sprained his ankle, but that was because he tripped over something afterwards. But they could have done some serious damage."_

" _We at the Vale News Network are glad to hear you and your colleagues are safe, Mr Boti."_ Lisa Lavender turned back to the camera. _"While these two mysterious combatants have so far refrained from harming civilians, they remain at large and a threat. Any information you have on the Fume Knight—a man in black armour—and the- could you repeat that for me, Mr Boti?"_

" _She, um, it had boobs, I think? But it was more like a_ thing _than a person. Not objectifying anybody here, by the way. I'm serious, it was hardly human at-"_

" _Any information regarding the Fume Knight should be reported immediately to your local police or to Beacon Academy. This is Lisa Lavender with your rogue Huntsman news."_

Cinder switched off the terminal, the hint of a smile playing at her lips. Mercury shared a nervous glance with Emerald. "So…" Mercury said, "this is good, then?"

"Far better than I expected."

Mercury and Emerald shared another glance. "But nothing actually _happened_ ," Emerald said, "and—they're talking about Raime, right? We're _helping-_ "

"I'm undecided as to whether we will help Raime," Cinder dismissed, sitting down on her bed. "He's an ally, undoubtedly, but it seems he has too many enemies for me to openly support him, if at all. Tell me—what _didn't_ he do in combatting the…" she considered her words. "What didn't he achieve in fighting Sulyvahn's dancer?"

"He didn't cause a panic," Mercury said, returning to his push-ups. "The witness seemed pretty relaxed about the whole affair."

"Precisely." Cinder had to admit—to herself, at least—that she'd been a little worried that Raime would cause such a stir that Ironwood would call the tournament off. But he and Sulyvahn's pet had confined their activities to a less populated area. There wasn't any clear video evidence of the duel to scare the general public, save for one of the witness's shaky, blurry recording of Raime fighting the Dancer, and even that was obscured by that strange dark fog that followed the Dancer wherever she went. It was, for all intents and purposes, a non-event to the civilians of Vale.

To Ozpin and Ironwood, of course, it was a symbol of their waning control over the city. That two such figures, whom they'd been aware of for weeks already and known to be potential threats, had done battle in the streets of Vale? They'd be rightfully worried. And it would split Sulyvahn's attention even further than before. The only downside was that Raime would have to be even more careful in his movements, which, as far as Cinder was concerned, wasn't her problem in the slightest.

"The other huntsman," Emerald said, "in the worker's footage. That was the one who helped Autumn, wasn't it?"

Yes, Cinder had noticed that too. "He has no reason to suspect us. You _did_ hide our faces from him, did you not?"

"Yes ma'am."

Though that didn't mean they should grow slack. She'd do her best to avoid him anyway. Even if he wasn't likely to recognise them, there was still a small chance.

But it didn't matter right now. She had some matches to fix.

Movement caught her eye—the feed she'd hijacked from Sulyvahn of Ozpin's office. They were watching some video. She enlarged the image, and strained her eyes.

That was Raime, fighting a hooded figure—Sulyvahn, no doubt. Where had they met, and who had bugged the location?

Lapp had chosen the location. And—if memory served—his encounter with the wolf and the Schnee had been brought about because of a bugged hangar. Who had been first on the scene? Winter and Artorias.

A new plan was taking shape in her head.

"Emerald?" she called.

"Hmm? I mean, yes?"

"There's a certain Atlesian whose office I'd like you to break into."

Her face twisted. "The Pontiff, again? Really. He creeps me out, and last time-"

"No," Cinder said. "Not Sulyvahn."

/-/

Artorias and Winter stepped out of the elevator, the wolf's brow furrowing as he noticed Qrow standing next to Ozpin. "How'd you-"

"Trade secret, kid." Qrow raised his flask, but Ozpin stopped him before he could drink. Now wasn't _quite_ the time, and Qrow was probably drunk enough as it was.

Artorias seemed accepting enough of that response. He shrugged and made to take a swig from his own flask. Ozpin wasn't close enough to stop him, but Winter trapped the flask halfway to his mouth with a glyph.

"My understanding is that the Fume Knight escaped," James said, stepping forwards.

"When you put it like that, it sounds bad," Artorias said, straining against Winter's semblance, "but really, it was like, only a five out of ten on the badness scale. Nobody got hurt, and I'm willing to bet… eh, ten lien that he's laying _real_ low. Like, 'cause no trouble do no harm' levels of low."

"Which makes your job that much harder," Qrow pointed out. "From what I hear, the man's got an agenda. He won't be hiding forever."

"Hey, you were there too."

Qrow snorted. "On overtime. I don't get paid overtime."

"I don't get paid at all."

"Calm down, gentlemen," Ozpin said, rising from his chair. "I'd introduce you, but it seems you've already met."

"Mm-hmm," Artorias said. "He's an ass. I like him."

"You would," Winter muttered.

"Standing right here, Ice Queen." Qrow drank from his flask, and this time Ozpin didn't bother stopping him. "You're alright… what's your name? Antony?"

"I've been called worse. It'll do."

"I'm not looking to cast blame," James cut in. "But the Fume Knight's become a far harder target, and any association between him and the…" he grimaced, "the thing. Whatever it is, any association between the two is unlikely to turn up a useful lead. If he's going to strike at the prisoner, it's going to be while we're still in Vale."

Qrow frowned. "Have you tried moving-"

"We're not going to move the prisoner out of the city," Winter said, cutting him off. "For everyone's sake, the armada remains here, and he is safest amidst the armada." James nodded in agreement.

"You think a man like that is scared of your little ships?" Qrow drawled. "He flew away with a Nevermore."

"He also fled from the two of you, so I doubt he has as much in the way of martial ability as it at first seemed," Winter quipped.

"Or maybe he thinks we're badasses?" Artorias suggested.

"That's enough," Ozpin said. While he disagreed with the fleet's presence on principle, he did agree that now that it was here it was hard to get rid of the ships without raising questions. For the time being, it was the safest place to hold Lautrec. "While I appreciate your desire to understand the mind of your enemy, for the time being it is unimportant."

"What direction did the Nevermore fly in? Did your recent altercation open any new avenues of investigation? Did the creature speak?" James asked.

"West," Winter said, stepping forward. She finally released the glyph holding Artorias, and he dropped his arm, massaging the joint a little with his other hand. "A Nevermore of that size carrying a man in full armour…" she paused to think for a moment. "It couldn't have gone much further than Patch without resting."

"I'll contact Tai," Ozpin said, knowing that Qrow was prepared to suggest the same.

"Tell him to be careful. Recon only. I don't want him getting hurt," Qrow said.

"Of course."

"There's more," Winter said. "Before the fight began, the Fume Knight met with another man in a hangar we bugged last week." She produced her scroll from her coat and laid it upon Ozpin's desk, the video projecting into the air before them.

Ozpin's blood froze.

He didn't recognise the hangar, nor did the image reveal anything new about the Fume Knight. He didn't recognise the hooded man… but he recognised the sword on his back.

"Well," said a man wearing a crown amidst windswept hair, stepping straight through Artorias to peer closely at the video. "I haven't seen that in a while."

 _You're not real_ , Ozpin thought. _And it can't be… that sword was lost._

"Or stolen," the crowned man added. "Or a very convincing replica."

"Or an unconvincing one," Ozpin murmured. That sword was, after all, the result of a failed attempt to create a second Relic of Destruction by Gwyn himself. Ozpin knew of three such weapons, though there were likely countless more floating around Remnant. One was even stored in the vault beneath Beacon. But this one… the Profaned Greatsword. It was special.

Gwyn had used it to strike down his own son, all those long centuries ago, and then it had disappeared in the chaotic aftermath. Who had discovered it? And how?

"It could be Lapp," the crowned hallucination suggested.

Ozpin shook his head and, through sheer force of will, drove the hallucination from the room. As he watched, the Fume Knight and the hooded man began to clash, and the hangar grew darker and darker until all he could see was the creature's flaming weapon glowing amidst the fog.

Lapp didn't fight like that. He rarely fought at all, but when he did he kept his foes at arm's length. Whoever that man was, it wasn't Lapp.

Ozpin took a moment to centre himself, trying to regain control of his thoughts. "The hooded man and the creature. Was this a coincidence, or are you certain they're working together?"

"Probably," Artorias said. "The hooded guy was gone by the time we showed up. Seems like the creature bought time for him to escape."

"This isn't the first time it's struck," James mused. "Last time it attacked a convoy escorting a priceless artefact to Vale's museum."

"The painting?" Winter asked.

James nodded. "It doesn't seem intelligent. It certainly hasn't spoken yet. But perhaps there's a common thread between its two targets." He stroked his chin, and Ozpin knew that he was resisting the urge to pace.

Ozpin could think of one common thread. Vengarl and the Fume Knight—whoever he was—were survivors of the Great War. Whether Vengarl was the intended target of the first attack was in question, but… it was a start.

Was this thing hunting war veterans? Perhaps it had even been the one to murder Joseph Arc. Was it doing it of its own volition, or was it taking orders—maybe from the hooded man, maybe not. And why would somebody want to kill veterans regardless of the side they'd fought for?

No. There was no reasonable motive. There must be another connection.

"Thank you for your report," he said. "You're all dismissed."

James whirled on him, brow furrowed. "Ozpin, we-"

"It can wait," Ozpin said, knowing that that James wanted to grill Qrow for whatever he'd learned on his mission. "I have some calls to make."

James didn't seem at all happy, but relented. "Very well." He turned to Artorias and Winter. "Continue your search for the Fume Knight, but remain inside the city. The prisoner is still undoubtedly the Fume Knight's primary target. I'll send a squad to Patch to assist Mr Xiao Long. They'll report directly to you, Winter."

Ozpin tuned them out as they made their way to the elevator. He had-

"You alright?" Qrow hadn't left yet. "You look tired. It's a bad look." He drank deeply from his flask, then, shrugging, offered it to Ozpin.

Ozpin pushed the offer aside. "These past few weeks have been stressful, to say the least."

"Huh. What did I miss?"

"An infiltrator in the CCT tower, a terrorist attack on the city-"

"Heard about that one."

"-now two open attacks from the…" Ozpin trailed off, looking for a word. "We can't keep calling it 'the creature', can we?"

"It's worked so far," Qrow muttered. "Two attacks from the creature, right, go on."

"A frontier town butchered by the Fume Knight—I believe Glynda is _still_ losing sleep over the refugees. There's an armada in Vale's sky, the council is breathing down my neck, and Vengarl made me…" Ozpin gritted his teeth. Qrow didn't need to know about Priscilla or the Painted World. Guarding the Relic of Destruction—the true relic, and not a failed copy—wasn't Qrow's job. "Never mind."

"Huh." Qrow drank again, then plonked himself down unceremoniously in the chair opposite the desk. "Vengarl was here?"

"That's your takeaway, is it?"

"He didn't die, did he? What finally did him in?"

"He's not dead."

"Oh. Good. Look, despite your dismissing Jimmy—that made me happier than a whole bottle of top-shelf scotch, by the way—what I found _is_ pretty important, so I thought I should tell you before you do the whole 'get out of my office, Qrow' thing. There's an infiltrator at Beacon."

"Yes, I know. I just said-"

"They're not some lackey. They're the one responsible for Autumn's condition." He pushed himself from his chair. "Get some sleep tonight, Oz. I'm gonna go find my nieces. Oh, and pass that along to Jimmy on my behalf. I don't really want to see his stupid face for at least another week." Qrow turned and made his way to the elevator in his usual tipsy gait.

"You need to call Gwynevere." The crowned hallucination was back, now leaning against one of the supporting pillars.

"And Vengarl," Lucatiel added, sitting in the chair Qrow had just vacated.

"And Tai," Ozpin said.

"And anybody who can get you in touch with Lapp."

"What if he's gone north?" Ozpin asked.

"Then Vengarl can handle him. That's why he's there," Lucatiel reminded him. "Maybe Priscilla?" Lucatiel suggested.

"No scroll," the crowned man responded. "And it's not like Lapp could have visited her… could he?"

Panic gripped Ozpin, and he gripped the leg of his desk, his aura jolting up his arm to open the hidden compartment. The doll was still there. It was safe.

Lucatiel hummed to herself. "You really _do_ need some sleep."

/-/

"You saw that, right?" Gilderoy Ornstein said into his scroll. On the screen, Artorias' face could be seen. He was walking through Beacon's halls.

" _Saw what? I've been busy saving the city,"_ he quipped.

"That's bullshit," Smough called, following Gilderoy out of the colosseum. Penny excused herself quietly to go find her team.

" _Well, maybe_ you're _bullshit."_ Artorias fired back. _"No, no—sorry, I wasn't talking to you."_

" _Hmph. You could have committed, at the very least."_ A girl's voice floated over the call, and in the corner of the screen Gilderoy saw a lock of brown hair.

" _No, I'm serious! Ugh. This is your fault, Smough."_

"I think I can live with that."

"Both of you, stop bickering for… thirty seconds. Please?"

"Fine."

" _Maybe. Can I get one more in?"_

"No."

" _Your beard's lame. Okay, I'm done."_

Gilderoy breathed deeply. "Are you sure you're done?"

" _Well, if you're offering…"_

"I'm not."

" _Oh alright. What's up?"_

"The two-v-twos," Gilderoy said. "Please tell me you saw that."

" _Like I said: saving the city. Kind of. Actually, I think I'd have been—you know what? Never mind. No, I didn't see it."_ On-screen, Artorias passed through a doorway.

" _You've been gone all day,"_ Ciaran said. He must have reached their dormitory.

" _Winter was giving me the full 'you're not even good at fighting' spiel. With evidence to back it up, of course."_

" _Ah. Classic. Is that Gil?"_ Ciaran's face appeared at the side of the screen.

"Mm-hmm. You saw the match-up, right?"

" _Oh yeah. You two are screwed."_

" _Are we, though?"_ Artorias asked.

" _Shush. You're not even good at fighting, remember?"_

Artorias snickered. _"She's probably giving Weiss the same speech right now. But seriously, why are we screwed?"_

"We're against Nora and Pyrrha," Gilderoy said.

" _Hmm. Pyrrha's rough, but-"_

"You didn't watch the match either? Do you know what Nora's semblance is?"

" _...she can predict bad weather with one hundred percent accuracy?"_

"No, she-"

" _She can eat a whole stack of pancakes without gaining any weight?"_

"No, it's-"

" _She can count to a thousand in a single breath?"_

"Why are those your first guesses?" Smough asked, moving closer so that his face was on camera.

" _That's what she said it is. She's not lying, is she? I'd be so disappointed in her."_

"Her semblance is electro-absorption," Gilderoy said.

Artorias finally shut up for more than a second. Then another second passed, then another, until a whole half-minute had gone by.

" _Yup,"_ he said at last, _"we're screwed."_

/-/

"I apologise for not having much time to speak with you."

Weiss shook her head. "It's perfectly fine," she said, though she wasn't quite sure that that was the truth. "I'm sure you're busy doing…"

"I'm afraid I can't divulge any details, though you might have seen the news report," said Winter. Weiss shook her head. Winter hummed quietly. "I think that's for the best," she said, putting her teacup down.

Weiss resolved to go back through the news from the past day or so. Winter had, whether she'd meant to or not, piqued her curiosity. But then, Winter did little without meaning to. Perhaps she was encouraging Weiss to conduct her own investigation into… whatever it was.

"I hear that you and Miss Xiao Long are proceeding to the next round," she said. "I'm not familiar with Team…" she seemed about to gag on the name, "Team Funky, but I expect you both to up your game for tomorrow."

Weiss hadn't expected to hear that, though in hindsight she should have. "We were one of the best first-year teams-"

"One of, and not quite. Not to mention that your opponents won't care if you have fewer years of experience. I counted at least three strikes missed." Winter seemed to catch herself. "I'm… sorry. I didn't mean to spend this time critiquing you."

"That's okay," Weiss said, and this time she knew she meant it. "You're right. I could still be better. I could always be better."

"I'm glad you see it that way."

Weiss bit her lip. "If you have time, I would like to train with you."

"Hmm." Winter sipped at her tea again, then replaced the cup on its saucer. "I have business to attend to this evening, but I can make time tomorrow before your match. Is there a particular area you'd like to focus on?"

Weiss hesitated before remembering who it was she was talking to. Winter would understand. "I've been struggling with my glyphs a little."

"I thought as much."

"I mean, I'm learning a lot here at Beacon! I've even started time dilation, but-"

"You've yet to summon?"

Weiss nodded.

Winter frowned. "There's little I can teach you on the subject that you don't already know. It should simply be a matter of practice."

"I've tried. I've practiced a _lot_. I didn't have much else to do after our exams ended."

Weiss knew that Winter was disappointed, but the elder Schnee didn't let it show. "Very well," she said. She cast her gaze aside briefly, then continued. "Now, tell me about your field assignment. Was it a good bonding exercises with your team?"

Weiss took a quick sip of her tea, then nodded. "Yes, I suppose they- it was."

Winter arched an elegant eyebrow. "They? Oh. Of course. The Paladin incident."

Weiss pursed her lips. "I know it's not technically a field 'assignment', but-"

Winter smiled. "Don't worry. I'd be lying to say I'm glad to see you putting yourself in unnecessary danger, but you did well. Had those Paladins remained in White Fang hands, the Breach would have been a far worse incident."

There was a swell of happiness in Weiss' chest. "Thank you."

"But I've heard plenty of that incident from the reports. How was your _official_ field assignment?"

"Well, there was this… thing. We were supposed to guard a shipment on route to the museum, but it was attacked."

Winter nodded. "Go on."

/-/

"There's someone in our room."

Yang gave Blake a puzzled look. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, there's someone in our room."

"Like, someone we know?" Ruby asked.

"Yes, because I'd be this panicked about Pyrrha. Of course we don't know him!"

"…so we're just going to stand out here then?" Yang asked, pushing her way past her partner. The door swung open.

"Hey kiddo."

"Uncle Qrow?!" Ruby sped past before Yang could do anything else, diving at their uncle and latching onto his leg. The man in question had—until the door had been reopened—been inspecting their masterfully created bunkbeds, but now was struggling to move with a little red-hooded girl hugging his right leg.

"This is your uncle?" Blake asked.

"And proud of it."

Blake paused to consider it, then shrugged. "I'll make myself scarce, then. Could you pass me that book?" she gestured a stack of books helping to support a bed.

Qrow eyed it warily. "Which one?"

Yang turned to her partner and smirked. "Yeah. Which one, Blake?"

"The one with the black cover. Third from the bottom."

Qrow nodded, leaned over to grab a book from the floor—still with Ruby clinging to him—then used it to replace the black book so as not to topple the bunkbed. He eyed the black book's cover, and his brow shot towards his hairline.

"You sure you want this one?"

Yang was sure that Blake swore under her breath. "…yes."

"Can't account for taste." He tossed it Blake's way, and the moment she caught it she disappeared into the corridor. His eyes stayed on the spot where she'd been for a second, then he shrugged. "Didn't mean to interrupt anything. For some reason it never really clicked that you had a team."

"Is this the 'you grow up so fast' speech?" Ruby asked.

"No. Only old people say that."

"Of course," Yang smirked. "Come on. My turn for a hug."

Qrow glanced down at Ruby, then back up. "You couldn't come to me instead?"

Yang leaned against the doorframe to emphasise her response. "Nah."

"Well then," Qrow said, sighing. "I guess it's just not happening, then."

Rolling her eyes, Yang crossed the room in a single bound and leapt at him, bringing them both toppling to the floor. "I missed you. Where've you been?"

"Sky-diving. Soul-searching. Picked up pottery on the side."

Ruby punched him on the arm as he tried to push himself up. "As if," she snorted.

"Yeah," Qrow agreed, and for a moment Yang saw that _look_ come over him. She called it his 'I need a drink for the wrong reasons' look. His eyes turned downwards, and his shoulders slumped a little, and his jaw clenched just a tiny bit. "As if," he said.

And then he was fine again.

* * *

 **It's really late and though I've done a few editing passes, I wouldn't be surprised if I missed something. I'll do another pass when I wake up, but I apologise if there's some glaring continuity error or a paragraph that makes absolutely no sense.**

 **One of the more interesting things about this kind of fic is working out how the canon characters change. Often it's in little ways. Here, Weiss asks Winter for help, rather than Winter looking to force the matter. I made the change because Weiss is just a _little_ more confident as a result of the changes to the dance arc/Mountain Glenn. In the canon dance arc, she never learns that Neptune can't dance. She's not quite sure what the problem is, only that Jaune fixed it. In TFI, Neptune admits to her face that he can't dance, which tells her that Neptune values her. It also had the repercussion that lost interest in Neptune, because she no longer felt challenged by him. I think Weiss needs to find a challenge in whomever she ends up with. She also experienced the relative success of helping to drive away the Dancer as opposed to almost dying to Banesaw. As such, I think it's safe to say that in TFI she's more confident in herself than in canon. But, for a character like Weiss, I think that with confidence and success comes a desire to obtain _more_ confidence and success, hence her asking Winter for help.**

 **I came _this_ close to going back on my 'no Sulyvahn PoV' guideline this chapter. He's watching and plotting, as is his wont.**

 **Next chapter - November 24th.**

 **I'll also publish the first chapter of _Special Beings have Special Souls_ some time over the next few weeks, though I won't commit to a regular update schedule on it until I hit the hiatus for _The First Immortal_. Jury's still out on whether I'll do _The Gospel of Lapp_ too, but...**

 _ **Special Beings have Special Souls**_ **. Keep an eye out.**


	32. Chapter 31: Lessons

"Think to your fallen foes, the ones that forced you to push yourself past who you were, and become who you are now," Winter instructed. Before her, Weiss' brow furrowed, and her arm wavered a little, though the glyph she was conjuring didn't dim. "Think of them, and watch as they come to your side."

Weiss grimaced, but still maintained her focus. The glyph kept spinning on the floor, but nothing else happened. Winter frowned. She couldn't doubt her sister's determination, to be sure, but…

Something, at long last, began to slowly emerge. Winter didn't dare speak, lest she break Weiss' concentration. It was no Grimm she was summoning- no, actually, it was the Geist in the suit of armour that Weiss had defeated a few months before coming to Beacon. Where its face ought to have been was only a lightless void, and an elegant crown hovered on its invisible head. Weiss' eyes were open, and glaring intensely at the glyph; a bead of sweat rolled down her forehead, and the glyph began to spin faster.

More appeared. The armour it wore was clearly elegant and abnormally large, and despite the blue-and-white light that emanated from it, it was clear that the metal was darkened. There was a sword in its hand, the blade corroded and chipped as though from years of use, and which seemed to glow with some inner light of its own. As its legs emerged from the glyph, it became clear that it was kneeling, perhaps out of obedience, though on both knees rather than one.

And then, finally, it was done. Weiss slumped down, relieved, Myrtenaster's tip trailing against the stones. Winter was silent, watching the summon closely.

It wasn't kneeling out of obedience, but because it was crippled. It hobbled towards them, dragging itself along the ground with its free hand.

"Weiss-"

Then it raised its sword.

"Weiss!" Winter's sabre came clear of its sheath, and she stepped forwards, parrying the massive sword before it could strike Weiss down. "Dismiss him, Weiss!"

"I… I can't!"

Winter frowned. There would be a time for such a lesson later. Winter attempted to restrain its sword-arm with a black glyph, but when she did so she felt a great drain upon her aura. Growling, she dispelled the glyph and stepped into its guard, sword held where its throat should be.

There was a face in the blackened void, eyes obscured by the crown where it dipped down. And she could have sworn there were two translucent arms snaked around its neck…

Winter didn't hesitate. She pulled her blade across its throat, and, to her shock, the thing had aura.

"Now, Weiss!" Winter leapt into a backwards handspring, narrowly dodging the sword that arced towards her. She summoned a glyph to block an incoming strike and dashed back inside its guard, slicing wildly at its midriff, at its neck, at its face. Every blow bounced off aura, but then she got behind it and struck its back, and all of a sudden it dissipated, the glowing energy fading into the air.

Silence reigned, for a time. Then, Weiss said, "I'm sorry."

"Who was that?" Winter asked, turning to face her sister.

Weiss didn't answer. "I couldn't control it," she said.

"No," Winter agreed. "And until we have more time to teach you how to do so, I think it's best you don't try again." Her voice softened as Weiss looked up, clearly distraught though she wasn't crying. Schnees didn't cry.

Allegedly.

"This is unprecedented, Weiss," Winter said. "I _am_ proud of you, but I'm also worried for your safety. Promise me that you won't try summoning—at least not alone—until we _know_ for sure that you can control the things you summon."

Weiss hesitated, then nodded.

"Now, who was that?" Winter repeated. "That was no Geist."

"I… I don't know."

"What do you-"

"I don't know," Weiss repeated. Winter relented. There would be time for such things later, and there was much research to be done. Who had been the first to wear that armour? It seemed to be the question to ask about, well, _all_ the armour she was hearing about recently. She suppressed a sigh.

"Are you alright, Weiss?"

Weiss nodded.

"When is your match? We might have time to-"

"I think I'm done training for the day," she said. "…do you want to watch a match or two together? Before mine, I mean."

Winter hesitated. She had some work to get done—even more so now.

"I don't want to be alone."

Winter broke. She wasn't entirely sure why Weiss was so affected, but it didn't matter. She understood the message; Weiss didn't want to be comforted by her friends in this. Perhaps she didn't want them to know at all. But Weiss wanted— _needed_ — her sister right now, and that was all that mattered. Winter nodded. "I'll be glad to," she said. She checked her scroll. "Coco Adel and Yatsuhashi Daichi versus Emerald Sustrai and Mercury Black begins in ten minutes," she said. "If we hurry, we can watch it."

Weiss nodded. "Thank you, Winter."

"I'm serious, Weiss. You were lucky I was here when it happened. Be careful in the future, alright?" She put a hand on Weiss' shoulder as she led her out of the garden. "I won't always-"

"I know."

/-/

Gilderoy gripped the red-hot spearhead with the tongs and pulled it from the furnace to plunge it into the quenching oil. A flame sprung up on its surface, and he had to avert his eyes for a moment.

"Ooh," Penny said, leaning against the wall. "That's pretty." She'd been a great source of help in the forging process. He needed a new weapon if he wanted to stand any sort of chance against Nora tomorrow. His bident had a shock dust edge, after all; if he were to use that, it would only make Nora stronger.

"How do you have time to do this for every arrowhead?" he asked Gough, who was sitting in the corner whittling down the wooden spear shaft. Arrows of a suitable size for his greatbow were hardly sold in weapon shops.

Gough looked up slowly, then shrugged. "I cheat a bit. I use casting moulds and skip heat treating." While Penny had helped with the more physical aspects of forging (she was deceptively strong), Gough had guided them through the process. Gilderoy hadn't built a weapon since his first year at Sunlight Academy, and that had been with a lot of help from the forgemaster. "It makes them more brittle and prone to breakage, but I'm rarely given opportunities to recover my arrows anyway."

"…but you do know how to heat treat a blade, right?" Penny asked, glancing nervously at the spearhead as Gilderoy pulled it from the quenching oil. Fumes spiralled off of it, floating upwards. "Is it supposed to do that?"

"Did you not have a hand in forging your own swords?" Gough asked.

"Oh, no. I didn't. So it _is_ supposed to do that?"

Gough's eyes turned to it, and his face twisted in thought. "Probably," he said. "Dunk it in again. It needs to cool rapidly."

"You don't exactly fill me with confidence."

"When have I ever led you astray?"

" _I'm_ the team leader."

"Just do it," Gough said, chuckling. Gilderoy hesitantly obeyed. "Penny, could you lower the heat on the furnace?"

"Lower it?" Gilderoy asked. "Don't you mean 'turn it off'?"

"No, he means lower it," Penny said. "Quenched steel needs to be tempered or it remains too brittle to be used in combat."

"…right. Tempered."

"I thought you didn't have much experience in blacksmithing," Gough said.

"Oh, I don't! But I looked it up." She cast her gaze upwards in thought, then jumped as though startled a little and whipped her scroll out of a pocket to wave at them. "On my scroll, where people look things up. That's where I looked it up."

"Naturally," Gough said. Penny seemed strangely relieved by his response and pocketed her scroll again. "Gil, let's see the metal."

Gilderoy drew the spearhead out of the quenching oil again. There were still fumes, but this time there were far fewer. Gough leaned the unfinished shaft against the wall and stood, walking over to tap the metal with the back of his knuckle. Gilderoy winced as he did so. "Don't worry," Gough assured him. "It's cooled enough." He returned to his seat and began whittling once more. "Put it in the furnace again. Heat it evenly until it's… hmm… light blue, then leave it out to cool."

Nodding, Gilderoy got to work, moving the spearhead back and forth through the flames and turning it as necessary.

"So," Gough said, after they'd worked in silence for a while. "What are you going to call it?"

"Does it need a name? I doubt I'll use it much after tomorrow."

Penny gasped in shock. "Every weapon needs a name. Ruby said so!"

"Mm. Not quite. Artorias never named his sword," Gilderoy said.

"That's false. Remember when we asked him about it in first year?" Gough turned to Penny. "He ended up naming it Clarence."

"That doesn't count. He was just trying to come up with the stupidest name imaginable."

"It _definitely_ counts," Penny said. She peered into the furnace. "It's blue."

"Show me," Gough said. Gilderoy pulled the spearhead out. "Seems about right. Let it cool." Gilderoy placed it down on the metal workbench.

"A lot of this seems like guesswork," he said.

"I'm no expert, but the forgemaster already went on holiday," Gough said, shrugging. "It's as good as it's going to get, and that's good enough."

"Hopefully."

"What's _not_ good enough," Penny said, adopting an air of authority, "is your lack of interest in naming it."

"I mean, it's not really necessary…"

"If you don't, I'll do it for you," Penny said. Her face twisted in thought as she looked at the spearhead. "I dub thee 'Ronald'!"

Gough snorted, holding back laughter. "How inspiring," Gilderoy said dryly. He glanced to his bident, leaning against the wall; it was called Ash, by all accounts a rather more serious name.

Well, maybe he could do to lighten up a bit.

/-/

"You alright?" Yang asked.

Weiss glanced at her teammate. "I'm fine," she responded. They were waiting in the entranceway to the arena for their fight to be announced by Port and Oobleck; Ruby and Blake had already gone back to find their seats.

"You spent the whole day with your sister and now you're upset—don't give me that look, I can read you like Blake reads smut. What's wrong?"

"Don't worry about it."

"Look, if you want me to beat up Winter for you, I'll… well, I'll certainly try."

Weiss laughed half-heartedly. "No, no, it's nothing Winter did." It was her; it was all just her. Weiss had always looked up to Winter and, so far, had done her best to follow Winter's own development in terms of combat ability and training. Winter had been able to use black holding glyphs by the age of eleven, so Weiss had made that a milestone and worked for it. Winter had been able to dilate time by the age of seventeen, so again, Weiss had had a milestone to work towards.

But Winter had been summoning since she was thirteen. It was the one thing Weiss hadn't been able to do. And now she had—now she _could_ summon…

But she was in unfamiliar territory. She could summon, but she couldn't control it. No Schnee, to her knowledge, had ever had that problem. And that terrified her. From whom could she seek guidance?

"Hey," Yang said, tugging on her arm. "We're going in. You'll be alright, right?"

Weiss nodded, clenched her eyes shut, then opened them again, trying to bring herself under control. They strode out into the middle of the arena.

"So," Yang said conversationally. Weiss knew what she was trying to do; whatever the next words out of Yang's mouth were, they would be an attempt to distract her from whatever her problem was. She appreciated the effort. "You're from Atlas. What can we expect?"

Weiss willingly took the bait. Hopefully, she could forget about it for the time being. "Well, seeing as their kingdom, academy, _and_ armed forces are all merged as one, I think we can expect strict, militant fighters with advanced technology and carefully rehearsed strategies."

Something sped by behind them. Weiss jumped, alarmed, and turned to see a brightly-coloured faunus dash by on rollerskates, a rainbow trailing behind her. A well-dressed man with a trumpet walked up to stand across from them, and his colourful companion came to a halt next to him.

 _This_ was Team Funky? Well, the name was appropriate… "Or whatever _they_ are," Weiss said.

"Hey!" the man with the trumpet called. "You're Weiss Schnee, right? The heiress."

Weiss flinched a little. _Schnee_. She was a one-of-a-kind failure with the Schnee family semblance, but… "Yes." She was still a Schnee.

"I take it you're pretty good with dust, then."

Dust. Yes. She _was_ good with dust. "Mm-hmm." She was a gosh-darn _prodigy_ with the stuff. She didn't need to be able to summon today. She had dust.

"Yeah… my dad was good too. Owned a little dust shop of his own—until your father's company ran him out of business."

"Oh." What could she even say to that? "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Sure you are."

Yang came to her defence. "Hey, why don't you-"

"Hey, why don't _you!_ That's what you sound like," the colourful faunus mocked.

Yang seemed at a loss for words. "Uh-"

"Hey, where'd you get your hair extensions?" Weiss winced. It was _never_ a good idea to go after Yang's hair.

"This is just my normal hair."

"Ooh, really?"

"Yeah." Yang's eyes narrowed, and for a moment Weiss thought they'd go red. "Is that a prob-"

"You should try rollerblading some time. It's _super_ fun. It'd probably take you a while though since you're so, you know… top heavy."

"Excuse me!?"

Well… this was going to go well.

/-/

" _Vordt,"_ Sulyvahn greeted.

The Specialist took one last glance over his shoulder before ducking into his quarters onboard the flagship, closing and locking the door behind him. It wouldn't do to be followed.

"Pontiff Sulyvahn," he responded, looking back down at his scroll.

" _You bring news, I'm sure."_ The Pontiff's violet eyes seemed to burn into him through the screen. _"What did Doctor Polendina want?"_

"I was escorting a machine from Atlas," he said. "A prototype of some sort. I don't know what it does, but he and the General both were adamant that it be given a full escort. It's valuable. Very valuable."

" _Interesting,"_ said the Pontiff. _"That would be for Raime's target, I suppose."_

"Who?"

" _Whom,"_ the Pontiff corrected, _"and his name is Raime. It doesn't matter."_ He breathed deeply, and his brow furrowed in thought. His gaze was demanding and intense, and Vordt felt small and insignificant beneath it. _"Truly, it doesn't matter. I have another piece of the puzzle, and I have no further need of an Atlesian Specialist's services."_

Vordt bowed his head. "It has been an honour."

" _Don't mistake me, Vordt. Your time with me has not yet come to an end. When do you depart on your next mission?"_

Vordt felt a swell of pride in his chest. He didn't know quite how the Pontiff wished for him to serve, but his loyalty and his faith in the Deep had not gone unnoticed. "Praise…" he muttered.

" _I am not asking for your praise, nor for you praise anything or anybody else."_ Vordt's attention snapped back to Sulyvahn; the man's eyes were narrowed. _"I ask that you serve. When do you depart?"_ he repeated.

Vordt shook his head. "I leave for Atlas tomorrow morning. Unless circumstances change, I will not be given a mission."

Sulyvahn nodded. _"Good."_ The Pontiff stood, and Vordt could see him begin to pace in the background. _"The Dancer has drawn the attention of Beacon and General Ironwood. I worry that, should I use her skills in the coming days, their response would be swift and harsh. I want you to take her place, where possible."_

Vordt frowned, puzzled. "But I am returning to-"

" _I heard what you said,"_ Sulyvahn snapped. _"Your airship will crash on northern Sanus, and when the wreckage is eventually recovered there will be evidence enough for you to be presumed dead."_ Sulyvahn returned to sit in front of his terminal, and his fingers flew across the keyboard. _"You will meet me at these coordinates tomorrow night. Do you understand?"_

…he was to fake his own death?

Vordt wavered for a moment. He had a life in the military; he had a life back in Atlas. His father's drinking would likely spiral again. His little sister who idolised him would be distraught. She always dreamed of following his footsteps, and he was so proud of her for it, but after he 'died' would she still think of him the same? No. Of course not: he'd be the idiot brother who got himself killed. Vordt breathed deeply, then exhaled, the semblance-cooled air coming from his mouth reminding him who he was.

He was Vordt. And his devotion to the Deep came first.

"I wouldn't be able to see my family, would I?"

" _I will make sure they are looked after,"_ Sulyvahn said.

Vordt nodded. "Very well," he said.

" _I will see you tomorrow, Vordt. Partake in peace."_

The screen went dark. "Partake in peace," Vordt murmured.

* * *

 **A small apology; canonically, Weiss/Yang v Flynt/Neon takes place on the same day as Ciel/Penny v CRDL on day four of the tournament (with RWBY v ABRN, JNPR v BRNZ and SSSN v NDGO all taking place on day two). But I fucked up last chapter (which took place on the evening of day two) and said that Weiss/Yang v Flynt/Neon would take place the next day (day three, which is canonically the same day as Em/Merc v Coco/Yats). There's no crossover shenanigans that explain the change, that's just me fucking up. Sorry.**

 **As I've said before, if something is close enough to RWBY canon I don't bother writing it out. Weiss/Yang v Flynt/Neon is just about the same, all things considered. Still, even though little changed in their intro scene it was important because it showed some of Weiss' internal thoughts on the matter of her summon. I was worried that it'd be a bit confusing as to why she's so upset about it if it was only seen from Winter's perspective.**

 **And, obviously, Weiss' foe in the White Trailer was a little different to in canon, though it would have more-or-less played out the same: it scars her, but she still defeats it.**

 **Named weapons make sense in-universe, but that I've been hesitant to name them so far because it felt kinda tacky. I finally committed to a few of them.**

 **Artorias' sword is here jokingly named 'Clarence', a rather bland and stupid name, but it was drawn from the name 'Clarent' which has its roots in Arthurian Legend. Clarent was a sword used for ceremonial purposes only (knighting people and the like), making it a symbol of peace... until Mordred stole it and used it to kill Arthur, his father. Corruption of purpose is a very fitting theme for Artorias' sword methinks, and given that he too committed patricide, it was the perfect name.** **The other option I was considering for Artorias' sword was 'Tyrfing', a weapon from Norse mythology that was cursed to kill a man every time it was drawn and to commit three great evils.**

 **'Ronald' honestly doesn't have any intended deeper meaning. It just sounded funny.**

 **'Ash', Gilderoy's bident, obviously draws from _Dark Souls_ , but with some etymological gymnastics it also refers to Ascalon, the spear with which Saint George killed the dragon. This last one might just be me, but I also associate ash trees with lightning due to one of my favourite books that sometimes refers to Yggdrasil as 'the Lightning Ash'. As far as I know, it's not a title Yggdrasil is ever called in the Prose Edda or the Poetic Edda, but it's stuck with me anyway.**

 **Also I have only a very basic understanding of how blacksmithing works, so most of what I described there is probably wrong. Still, given that (according to Ruby) 'all students at Signal forge their own weapons', it's safe to assume that most Hunters have at least a rudimentary understanding of weapon crafting. It's not something that's ever really explored in the show, and here I had an opportunity to look into it with Gilderoy, Gough, and Penny forging a simple spear... so why not?**

 **Next chapter - December 1st (god damn it's almost December already?)**


	33. Chapter 32: Heroes

**First of all, some shameless self-promotion: the first chapter of _Special Beings Have Special Souls_ , a Great War era fic set in this same semi-crossover universe, is up on my profile. Feel free to check it out and fav/follow/review.**

 **To the guest reviewer: read the AN at the bottom of the prologue. There's no universe-hopping. I got shit for putting this in the not-crossover archive at first too. Just can't win, I guess.**

 **Sorry for any misconceptions last chapter; I had no intention of spelling out the entirety of Yang/Weiss v Flynt/Neon because it would have played out more-or-less the same as canon (or at least with the same victor). It's a fight that lacks stakes (and, as I learned with Harvest v Gwyn, fights lacking stakes are kinda meh).**

* * *

"Penny!" Ruby called, chasing after her ginger friend on the way out of the stadium. Penny and her teammate turned, and Penny's eyes widened in surprise, a grin forming on her face.

"Ruby!" she dove at Ruby, tackling her in a firm hug. Ruby was sure she felt her back break. "Ruby, this is my teammate," Penny said, rising to her feet in an instant after relinquishing her grasp. _Not fair_ , Ruby thought, pulling herself up far more slowly.

"Ciel Soleil," Penny's teammate introduced herself.

"Hi! I'm Ru-"

"Ruby Rose: fifteen; hails from Patch; leader of Team Ruby. Status… questionable." _Is she a robot too?_ Ruby wondered.

"Sooo… Penny! You two were incredible out there!" Well, not as amazing as her _own_ teammates had been, but hey—she'd praise anybody who deserved it. "How do you keep control of all those swords? It's so co-"

"Penny, I believe it is best if we move on to our next location," Ciel said.

"Oh, I apologise, I… _forgot_ to tell you. I won't be joining you; I'm meeting with my father soon," Penny said.

"Soon?" Ciel asked, eyebrow raised.

"I will have to depart from Amity in approximately three minutes to arrive on schedule," Penny elaborated.

Ciel nodded sharply. "Very well. I will see you when you return to our quarters." She turned on her heel and departed, her steps measured and mechanical.

"So," Ruby said, gesturing to Ciel as she disappeared around a corner, "is she your… friend? Or…"

"Well, in a way. She's like Blake, but if Blake was ordered to spent time with you."

"Oh. So Weiss."

"Precisely!"

"Does she know about… you know, 'bee-boo-bop, does not compute'?"

"Oh, no! General Ironwood doesn't really want _anyone_ to know. I ran a little low on power the other day, but I was able to play it off."

Ruby nodded. That was good. "So, you're meeting with your father today? I'd love to meet him."

"Oh, I'm sorry, but this is more of a-" she checked over her shoulder and leaned in, speaking quietly, "-it's mostly for top-secret work."

"Oh," Ruby said. "Is it always for work?"

"Of late? Yes. I'd like to spend more time with him, but I understand that he's very busy," she said sadly. "Still, even when it's for work he makes sure to ask me how I've been; you know, if I'm making friends. That sort of thing! And I've been making a _lot_ of friends here at Beacon. I-" she paused, and pursed her lips. "I want to stay here at Beacon."

Ruby's voice softened. "Penny, they'll never let you do that."

"I know," she said, "but I have a plan." She jumped with surprise, as though something had made a sound behind her (though Ruby heard nothing). "I have to get going. I'll talk to you more soon, Ruby!" she said, setting off towards the landing pads.

Ruby watched her go. She'd love it if Penny could stay at Beacon, but the chances of that happening—even with Penny's plan (whatever that ended up being) weren't very high. Peter Port's voice cut through her thoughts.

" _Our next match starts in fifteen minutes!"_

Oh. Right. Team Juniper versus Team Gwyn—two of her friends against… two of her _other_ friends.

She was _not_ going to miss this.

/-/

Artorias rolled his shoulders. A quick weapons check – one hand reached for his sword and the other for his dagger before he remembered yet again that it was lost to the Fume Knight. He flipped open the small pouch at his side and saw the small collection of colourful crystals within.

"Get rid of the shock crystals," Ciaran instructed.

"Sure. Sure." Artorias peered within. "…they're the blue ones, right?"

"Please tell me you're joking," Gilderoy said. His bident was slung across his back, and in his hands he held the spear that he, Gough, and Penny had worked on for the better part of the previous day. It was a simple weapon, with a wooden shaft and a wide metal head. There were no mechanical parts to speak of. It channelled no dust, and it fired no bullets. But it was light, sturdy, and Gough had made sure that it was well-balanced for throwing, if necessary. It gave him a fighting chance against Nora, and that was the important part.

"I'm kidding," Artorias quipped. "I know they're red."

Ciaran shook her head and tapped Gough on the arm. "We'd better find our seats," she said. "Good luck, both of you."

"They don't need luck," Gough said. His arms were folded, and he watched with a sharp eye as Artorias put aside the yellow dust crystals.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Gilderoy said.

"You don't need luck if you don't need to win," Gough said. "We'll all be back home in a week, win or lose."

"Wow," Artorias drawled. "I feel so… dead inside?"

"Good job for seeing the bigger picture, Gough," Gilderoy said. "Not much good for motivation, though."

"Speech!" Artorias hollered. "Validate our insecurities or I'll… I dunno, make Gil kick you off the team or something." He turned to their leader. "You can do that, right?"

"If I could, you'd be long gone."

Gough's laughter echoed off the walls. "You'll both do great," he said. "I'm sure of it."

"Thank you," Artorias said with insincere gratitude.

"Come on," Ciaran said. "They're going out in-"

Port's voice cut her off, announcing the fighters. The great door leading into the arena opened, spilling light into the entrance hall. Gough and Ciaran departed through a side door.

"You ready?" Artorias asked.

Gilderoy twirled his new spear. "It'll do," he said.

"It'll have to," Artorias remarked dryly.

The cheering was overwhelmingly loud. Bright lights shined down on them. There were faces all around the stadium, watching them intently. Across the arena, Nora and Pyrrha approached. Pyrrha seemed very much in her element. There was a competitive glint in her eye, and she seemed more relaxed now than he'd ever seen her.

"Good luck!" Nora called cheerfully, as the landscape roulette began to spin.

"Don't need it, eh?" he said, nudging Gil.

The arena began to form. Directly behind them was a forest landscape, then, clockwise, were ice fields, a ruined city, and…

Artorias went pale.

There was a mountain, and atop it crackled a storm cloud.

"Damn," he muttered.

"Mm-hmm," Gilderoy said.

" _Three!"_ Port's voice boomed.

Artorias drew his sword. "I'll take Nora?" he suggested.

" _Two!"_

Gilderoy switched his stance from two-handing his spear to couching it under his right arm. "No," he said. "I'm faster than you. I can cut Nora off."

" _One!"_

" _Blessed was Ornstein…"_ Artorias heard.

" _Begin!"_

Gilderoy blasted forwards, yellow lightning sparking in his wake. Even Pyrrha's reactions weren't quite enough, and he caught her on the leg before she could dive fully out of the way, sending her rolling across the centre platform towards the city ruins. Gilderoy's shoulder slammed into Nora's midriff, carrying them both onto the ice fields. He stabbed downwards to arrest his momentum, while Nora slid backwards into a block of ice.

Artorias wasn't far behind. Pyrrha rolled to her feet, and he was already on top of her, sword arcing downwards. She raised her shield, but Artorias revealed his bluff, pulling the blow and instead gripping the shield's rim with his gauntleted hand. A quick battle of strength ensued; he won out and tore it from her grasp. She recovered quickly and stabbed at his chest, but he batted the blow away with her own shield before tossing it aside and gripping his sword with both hands. He chambered a strike, and though it missed by mere millimetres it put Pyrrha on the defensive. He twirled his sword with deft and practiced hands to push Pyrrha backwards step by step. To her credit, she was so nimble that very few blows made contact, but even those that didn't pressured her enough to prevent a retaliatory strike. After sending a particularly powerful strike slanting off to the side, Pyrrha fled, leaping atop a crumbling building and unloading a full clip at Artorias.

He growled and gave chase, spinning his sword in front of him to deflect the incoming fire. When he was within a few metres of the building, she jumped back down, weapon raised. Artorias caught the strike and threw her behind him, though she landed on her feet and renewed her assault. He backpedalled through the ruined city, either parrying or dodging each of her rapid strikes as he went. She flowed from style to style, form to form – first a spear, then a sword, then a spear again, then, for a brief moment, a rifle.

Clearly, he thought, giving her any time to get a combo going was a bad idea. Her assault was merciless, her technique flawless, and he couldn't predict her movements; her style was simply too unfamiliar, particularly her more physics-defying stunts. He'd had his chance to attack, but now it was hers, and she was nigh unstoppable.

Gritting his teeth, he wrested back control of the fight. His back foot dug into the ground. His sword caught hers, and though she angled her blade around his own to slice painfully along his arm, he did not waver. He lashed out with his fist; she dodged, the strike blowing past her face close enough to set a few hairs out of place, then performed a backwards handspring to send her feet kicking up into his face.

It was a move he'd seen Winter do before. Hell, it was a move Winter had used on _him_ before, and she did it better than Pyrrha. He knew exactly how to counter it.

This was good. This was familiar. He'd fought this before.

Rather than dodging backwards as most would, he dropped his sword and, with both hands, grabbed her feet as they whipped upwards. He halted her momentum, and then slammed her back down into the ground. There was no time to retrieve his weapon; instead, he stomped down hard on her stomach once, twice—no, not twice, because somehow she wasn't at all stunned or winded and managed to grab his foot to pull him down with her.

He made sure to land on top of her, and was somewhat relieved to hear her exhale sharply then gasp for breath as he did so. After a moment, she shoved him away with far more force than he thought she'd be able to muster, and they both climbed to their feet, Artorias grabbing his sword from where it lay. She was a little warier of him now, adopting a more defensive stance and keeping her distance.

"I feel like it's been a while since we've talked," Artorias said. "You know? Just talking. No fighting? Just… nice, laid back talking. How about that weather, right?"

Pyrrha frowned. "I don't think stalling is in your best interest."

"Then it's in your favour and you won't mind? Good. How. Is. The. Weather?"

"Is this some kind of signal…?" Her eyes flickered left and right.

Well, no. He really _was_ just trying to stall. He'd rather fight Nora than Pyrrha, but now he had an idea. His eyes focused on the empty space behind her, and he gave a slight, nod—subtle, but deliberately perceptible. "Well," he said, drawing out the word for all its worth, "you'll have to stall to find out."

"There's nobody behind me. Did you really think I'd fall for that?"

"Kinda, yeah." He rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. "But now I've gotten like, a solid thirty seconds of stalling, give-or-"

A wall behind her exploded, outwards, and Gilderoy came flying through the hole. The spear had been snapped in half, and its splintered remains gripped loosely in his hands.

Nora appeared in the hole he left. "Sorry!" she called. She jerked a thumb over her shoulder, in the general direction of the mountain. Thunder boomed around the arena, and a bolt of lightning struck its peak. "How about that weather, am I right?" She offered a bright smile, then bounded off towards the mountain.

Artorias made to give chase, but Pyrrha twirled her weapon, standing in his way. "So," she smirked. "How'd that work out for you?"

Gilderoy stood up behind her, looking a little worse for wear but still with enough aura to fight. He tossed the splintered remains of the spear aside and drew his bident. "I guess Nora's yours," he said glumly. "Think you can catch her?"

"I don't think he can," Pyrrha said, raising her weapon.

"Not with you in my way, sure."

They both charged at Pyrrha at the same time. She twisted and rolled and parried their blows far more elegantly than was entirely fair, but their joined assault was too quick for her to get any strikes in of her own. She lost ground rapidly until her back was against a wall. She kicked at Gilderoy to gain a little breathing room, and Artorias capitalised, striking low at her anchoring leg. She stumbled, but gained her footing again quickly enough to scamper up and over the wall. She fled towards the centre of the arena—where Nora would have a free shot at them.

Gilderoy pulled Artorias back behind the wall.

Pyrrha picked up her shield and turned to face them.

"Come out, come out!" Nora called. "Come out and play!" A grenade exploded against the wall they were taking cover behind, and cracks began to form across it.

"I'll handle-" Gilderoy's words were cut off by a crack of thunder. He closed his eyes and his mouth formed a thin line, and Artorias suspected he was refraining from swearing. He could hear Nora's cackling from atop the mountain.

"Stay behind me," said Artorias. Gilderoy didn't need telling twice.

He gave his gauntlet a slight tap with his aura and stepped out from behind the wall. Nora leapt from the mountain's peak, hammer raised to strike. Her body crackled with energy, and her eyes sparked with glee.

Artorias braced for impact.

/-/

"I really feel like giving Nora the mountain was overkill," Mercury said, tossing some popcorn into the air. He looked up, opened his mouth to catch it- and then Emerald plucked it out of the air and ate it for herself. "You're a bully, you know that? And here at Beacon they have a-"

"Shockingly lenient policy for bullies?" Emerald asked.

"Hm. You got me there." Mercury looked back to the arena. The combatants were obscured by smoke and ash and dust, save for Pyrrha standing in the arena's centre. She—like the audience—was watching with bated breath.

Or so Mercury guessed, anyway. Not much could handle a supercharged Nora head on. That was the _point_. The outcome was obvious.

Within the smoke was a flash of green—a wind dust crystal—and the cloud cleared a few seconds later.

"Huh," Mercury said.

The wall they'd been hiding before not a moment before to had been smashed to pieces. The debris behind them had been scattered away, gathering around the base of the arena's protective forcefield. But Artorias still stood, a greatshield held before him.

"Huh," Emerald agreed.

/-/

When the dust cleared, Pyrrha was surprised to see that they hadn't been reduced to a smear. Nora too seemed shocked, though she got over it quickly, offering a nervous giggle and a polite nod to the pair. If the look on Artorias' face were any indication, he was in a whole lot of pain, and even as she watched, his cobalt aura sparked around his shoulder. There was an audible _pop_ as his arm snapped back into place—Nora must have dislocated it.

She glanced up to the scoreboard. Artorias' aura had dropped a whopping forty percent blocking Nora's blow alone, leaving him with forty-two percent remaining. Gilderoy's was looking a bit better at sixty. He must have gotten a few good hits in on Nora before she'd smashed him through the wall, for the bomber girl's aura was in a similar condition, while her own was…

Well, it was lower than it had ever been in a tournament fight—but still higher than she expected—at sixty-seven. Some of that had been spent manipulating her semblance, but despite all her training some of the wolf's attacks had slipped past her defences, and when they did, they hit hard.

"How the damn hell is that fair?" Pyrrha's attention snapped back to Artorias, who still seemed to be in quite a bit of pain. His shield collapsed back into a gauntlet, and he rolled his shoulder, breathed deeply, then steeled himself, readying his weapon once more.

"…I can go back up the mountain and try again if you'd-"

"Hell no!" He charged, raising his weapon with one hand, and struck. Pyrrha sprang into action, dashing across the arena towards them, though Gilderoy intercepted her, their blades locking into a contest of strength. Nora flew into the air, head snapped back from an uppercut, and landed not far off, and Pyrrha saw Artorias stalking towards her as she pulled herself up.

Grimacing, Pyrrha kneed Gilderoy in the abdomen to shove him away, then backstepped for room and tossed her shield at Artorias.

"Duck!" Gilderoy called, and Artorias did so. The shield whistled harmlessly over his head; Pyrrha reached out her hand to call it back, but it wasn't necessary. Nora dove over him, catching the shield as she went, and dashed towards Pyrrha and Gilderoy, firing a few shots behind her both to speed herself up and to slow Artorias down.

Yes. This was good. Gilderoy couldn't risk striking Nora; if they were quick, they'd be able to drop his aura before Artorias caught up.

Nora threw the shield over the short distance remaining, then swung at Gilderoy. He ducked and weaved but didn't strike back, and together they forced him into a wild backpedal. He was virtually weaponless.

"Catch!"

Pyrrha saw, briefly, a massive sword flying over her head before Artorias barrelled into her, shoving her unceremoniously to the side. She rolled as she struck the ground, coming to her feet near the treeline to see Artorias approaching, sword gone, but with his fists raised. Behind him, Gilderoy was swinging clumsily at Nora with Artorias' weapon, successfully keeping her at bay.

Smart, she supposed. Artorias was an apt fistfighter, but it seemed that Gilderoy had no such experience. Not that he seemed much better with a sword; he was swinging it in wide, predictable arcs, but despite his ineptitude it had the range and power to give Nora pause.

Pyrrha attacked first. Artorias ducked her swing and jabbed at her side with his left hand; she dodged with ease and brought her shield swinging towards his face. His hand came up, splaying to try and fend it off, but a hand was little buffer to a wide disc of hard metal. He staggered backwards, and she took the offensive, her blade transforming even as she tossed her shield. He ducked her shield and deployed his own; her javelin bounced off its surface, transforming midair into rifle form. He caught the two quick follow-up shots even as his shield became a gauntlet once more, then dove beneath the wide javelin swing and rolled past a downwards stab.

She could hear her shield coming back, a faint whistle. She could _feel_ it in her soul, quite literally.

And, if the way Artorias' wolf ears twitched were any indication, he heard it to.

He leapt skyward, spinning anti-clockwise, and caught her shield in his left hand. He brought it whipping around at her face at something resembling terminal velocity, but, though she felt a few hairs blow free in her shield's wake, she'd already moved, sliding under and behind him.

Of her many opponents in the Mistral circuit, not one had ever caught her shield, and since coming to Beacon only Blake had ever done it in sparring. The blood pounded in her head, and adrenaline coursed through her. She didn't like the fame much, but the competition?

Oh, she missed it.

She came to her feet in an instant and spun, chambering a strike. Artorias was still rolling to his feet, his back turned. She struck, but he caught it blindly on her own shield. He spun to face her, lashing out with a wild kick; she danced backwards, buying him time to back off and breathe.

He tore a thicker branch from a tree and twirled it in his hand like a shortsword.

 _Really?_ She could certainly see why he'd want more range. It wasn't that he was a poor fistfighter—he was less elegant than Yang, for sure, but no less efficient—but the lack of range afforded by fists alone was easily his biggest weakness for the time being. But _really?_ A stick? Pyrrha rolled her eyes. He must have thought it a distraction, for he attacked; she cut the branch in half, then half again so that its remains were hardly half a foot long.

"You really thought that would help?"

He threw what was left of the branch at her face. She cut that up too, but he followed up, swinging her shield at her face. Pyrrha leaned away, altering its path a little with her semblance, then brought a knee up towards his midriff. An unbalanced sidestep got him out of harm's way, though he was forced to roll to avoid falling entirely. He raised her shield behind him as he came to his feet, catching a shot from Pyrrha's rifle, then blindly swung with it.

This was her chance. Pyrrha reached out with her semblance and _pulled_ …

Her shield came flying to her, gauntlet still attached. She yelped in surprise and relinquished her semblance's pull, and the two metal pieces split apart. Pyrrha caught her shield, and the gauntlet landed harmlessly somewhere behind her.

"Huh," Artorias said, flexing his bare fingers. He tugged off his other glove—leather, but plated with metal—and clenched his right hand into a fist. A copper ring shined on his finger. Copper, though a metal, required extremely powerful magnetic fields for there to be any effect. Perhaps she'd be able to manipulate it, but doing so would probably expend more aura than it was worth. "I get it now," he said.

He tossed the glove at her; she altered its course a little and raised her shield to block the follow-up charge. Two hands wrapped around cut-out on top of her shield and pulled, hard, wrenching her guard open. She cut along his neck with her sword, sending blue sparks of aura flying, but, to her surprise, he ignored the pain. His right fist rocketed towards her face.

She tried to lean away, but the ring caught her on the cheekbone.

She staggered back, feeling, for the first time in the fight, truly stunned. She could see angry red sparks of aura under her left eye where the hard metal had struck bone, and pain shot through the side of her face. Artorias capitalised, left fist slamming into her lower ribcage, then throwing another right hook. Her instinctive reaction was to push it to side with her semblance and, to her detriment, she did so, successfully throwing his ringed hand a few inches off course. It was enough for her to clumsily lean out of the way, though the effort left her feeling drained.

She made to strike back, but he was well within her guard, and the pommel of her weapon bounced pathetically off his pauldron. Her knee came up into his chin as he dived into a shoulder-tackle, and she dropped her sword in favour of slamming her elbow down on his back. She heard a sharp gasp of pain, but his course was already set, and the wind was knocked out of her as he threw her violently to the grass.

Her shield came up to cover her face as he rained down punch after punch. She could _hear_ his aura sparking as his fists struck the shield—or perhaps it was her own as every blow that hammered down threatened to crush her arms between her shield and her own body as though they made a vice. She tried to push against it, but every attempt led only to the shield being forced back down, slamming into her face.

And then it stopped. He was still holding the shield down, trapping her arms and obscuring her vision, but there was no more punching.

She mustered her strength and pushed the shield upwards with all her might, body and semblance both.

Artorias was thrown into the air, but dust spilled out of the pouch open at his side and landed on top of her. A spark of blue aura jumped from Artorias' hand into the little red crystal he was carrying, and he tossed it down into the chaos before falling back to the ground several metres away.

 _Dammit._

An inferno sprung up around her, and all at once she couldn't tell if she was hot or cold; only that she was in pain. It lasted only for a brief second, and then it was gone.

"Mistral Regional Champion Pyrrha Nikos is eliminated!" Port called.

"Though not without giving a hell of a fight," Oobleck added.

"Still," Port went on, "I can't help but think a lot of people have lost money on this fight…" there was an audible sigh over the speaker. "…myself included."

She could have sworn she heard him sniffle.

Artorias pushed himself to his feet, staggering a little. "You alright?" he said.

Was she alright? Everything hurt, and she didn't have quite enough aura to do anything about it, though, she found out by pulling her nearby sword to her hand with her semblance, she still had a _little_ bit left.

She'd also lost, which she hadn't done in… well, ever, really. Not since she'd discovered her semblance, at the very least. Even in sparring, though she'd occasionally come kinda close to losing, she'd never actually lost.

Did she mind?

…no. It was to be expected. The Vytal Tournament showcased the very best of the best. She couldn't think of a better place to lose a fight.

"Well," she said, still lying in the grass, "I'd say it's pretty sunny today," she said.

"Stalling? Really?" He laughed half-heartedly. "The sun's nice," he said. "Better with a few clouds, but still… nice."

"You're not going after Nora?" she asked, surprised. "How much aura do you have left?"

He didn't even look at the scoreboard. "Not much," he said. He walked over and offered her a hand up. "I need a breather anyway. Seven hells with a cherry on top, you're tough."

She laughed, though the effort hurt her still-sore cheek a little, and took his hand. He pulled her to her feet, and she dusted herself off as best she could. "I've worked hard to become so," she said.

"Clearly," he said dryly. He made his way over to his gauntlet and his glove, and, to Pyrrha's relief, didn't ask about her semblance. "So," he said, bringing their stall-talk back to the weather, "what are your thoughts on rain?"

"I don't mind it if it's plentiful," she said, retrieving her shield from where it had fallen. "If it's just a few drops, it's annoying. It should either rain or not rain, not something in the middle. How about you?"

"Smells nice," he said. "Miserable otherwise." He pulled on his gauntlet. "I should probably see how Gil's doing. Five lien says Nora finishes me off, then Gil beats her."

"I don't gamble."

"And why the hell am I betting against myself?" He frowned. "Eh. I'll see you around."

/-/

"And she's your first choice?" Jimmy asked.

"And Glynda's, and Vengarl's," Ozpin said.

"Hmm." Qrow took a long drink from his flask, then turned his attention back to the video projecting from Ozpin's desk, now focusing on Gilderoy Ornstein's clumsy attempts to wield a sword. It was clearly far too heavy for him to fight with normally, but he was turning that to his advantage, throwing his entire body weight into recklessly acrobatic strikes that kept the weapon's momentum going, trying to overpower Nora Valkyrie through sheer strength alone.

"She's a bit famous, don't you think?" Qrow said.

"Vengarl said much the same."

"You sure he's not dead?"

"As of yesterday, at least, he's still alive," Ozpin said, rolling his eyes.

"What's he doing up in Oolacile anyway?"

"It's a long story." Ozpin leaned forwards on his desk; onscreen, the wolf—Artorias, that was his name—blindsided the ginger girl, getting her in a headlock and allowing his teammate to pummel her. "It's probably for the best that she was eliminated from the tournament. The surge in reputation from reaching the finals would have been detrimental to our cause."

"You've made up your mind, I see," Jimmy said.

"Unless you have an undeniably better alternative, yes," Ozpin said, "I have. This is more of a courtesy call. Amber grows weaker. We're running out of time."

That shut Jimmy up. He nodded, and folded his arms, but said nothing.

"Next order of business, then," Qrow prompted. "Come on, don't leave us waiting. Don't leave _me_ waiting. Just don't leave me with Jimmy." The General rolled his eyes.

"Be patient, Qrow," Ozpin said. "How goes Doctor Polendina's work?"

"Well," Jimmy said. "Specialist Vordt arrived with a modified prototype of the aura transfer machine yesterday. Doctor Polendina tells me he still needs to make some final adjustments, but if everything stays on schedule it will be ready in a few days."

"Good," Ozpin said. "There's still the matter of what to do with Anastacia's soul."

"Wonder if we could make a 'Super-Maiden'," Qrow mused. "Give both to the tourney girl. Just, you know, hypothetically. Not advocating this or anything, just putting it out there."

"I think not," Ozpin said. "We are fortunate on this front that we are not on a time limit; the threat to Lautrec's health comes from without, not within. If we can hold the Fume Knight at bay, we can delay the transfer indefinitely. We have a rare opportunity to look deeper into the rules of the Maiden's inheritance."

"Still a bad idea to leave it with the guy," Qrow said. "He's gone a little off the deep end, right?"

"He's perfectly sane," Jimmy countered. "He's just a criminal."

"And that's better…?"

"I didn't say that." Jimmy shifted his stance a little, then began to pace. "We may have a solution in Doctor Polendina," he said, after some time.

"Is he a maiden-eligible girl under that moustache?" Qrow quipped.

Jimmy ignored him. "He's conducted much research into neural networks—artificial minds that can interface with a soul." There was another slight pause before he continued. "It's all hypothetical, of course."

"Of course," Ozpin echoed.

"Sounds like there's a lot of room for things to go wrong," Qrow said.

"Which is why I was hesitant to bring it up for Amber." His pacing ceased, and he leaned on Ozpin's desk, looming over Beacon's headmaster. "But we have plenty of time to get it right with the Summer Maiden. Let Doctor Polendina take Lautrec back to Atlas. He has my complete faith."

Ozpin steepled his fingers and hummed in thought. "I doubt that this sort of technology could be perfected before Lautrec dies of old age," he said, with a slight chuckle.

"Doctor Polendina can do it," Jimmy said.

"But the fleet won't return to Atlas until after the tournament," Ozpin said, "and I would advise against transporting the prisoner without the fleet's protection. There is still time for something to go wrong. We need to reach a decision _now_ as to what should be done with Lautrec in the event of a catastrophe."

Jimmy rubbed his chin. "I would put forward Weiss Schnee to undergo the transfer. She's a capable student-"

"And also the most likely to one day be in your pocket," Qrow muttered.

"The transfer may not be necessary," Ozpin mused. "And I'd rather not inform anybody of the Maidens unless they need to know. With Amber, the transfer is necessary to prevent her powers seeking their other half; but Lautrec's situation, unique as it is, should still follow the normal rules of inheritance."

"You're suggesting that we get him to think real hard about our ideal Summer Maiden and then we murder him?" Qrow asked.

"I was going to suggest Coco Adel, but I believe under these circumstances Miss Schnee is the better candidate. Her fame could prove useful in this; Lautrec should be able to visualise her with little prompting. She wouldn't need to be made aware of the Maidens until she _is_ one."

"So we lie?" Qrow said, raising his voice a little. This plan was getting worse and worse. "We only approach her after the fact? Tell her that it was all random happenstance and that we're sorry she'll have to live her life essentially on the run?"

"This is a contingency, Qrow," Jimmy said. "If all goes well, this won't be necessary."

"Nothing good ever happens after the words 'if all goes well'," Qrow said. He sighed, and took a long drink from his flask. "I suppose we've done far worse than lying and murdering."

"It's hardly even murder," Jimmy said.

"Oh, really? Because it sounds to me like we're taking somebody's life who doesn't deserve it."

"He has confessed to at least one count of homicide, and many frontier towns have been wiped out due to his negligence."

"We should hardly blame him for the Fume Knight's actions," Ozpin reprimanded.

"All the same, if he were to be judged in Atlas, he could easily fetch a life sentence, if not the death penalty."

Qrow's face soured. Atlas was the only kingdom to still have capital punishment—well, except Vacuo, which _officially_ outlawed capital punishment after the Great War, but seeing as Vacuo didn't actually _have_ a court of law anymore, that was a moot point. Still, even there it wasn't a commonly accepted practice.

"Fine," said Qrow. "If shit hits the fan—and _only_ if shit hits the fan—I'll go along with it."

"That's the whole point of a contingency."

"Oh, get over yourself, Jimmy."

/-/

"We did it!" Gilderoy was surprised by how tired Artorias sounded. The wolf looked downright haggard, his ears drooping and his arms hanging loosely by his side. Checking the scoreboard, the reason was clear: he had only sixteen percent aura remaining. He'd nearly been eliminated.

It was a good thing he hadn't. Gilderoy doubted he'd have been able to deal with Nora if Artorias hadn't grappled her.

But still, the wolf put in the effort, waving back at the cheering crowd as they made their way out of the stadium, a broad grin on his face.

"You probably should have let me handle Pyrrha," Gilderoy said, passing back the greatsword. The thing was bloody heavy; how Artorias could wield it one-handed he'd never know.

"What? Nah." Artorias said, waving him off. "She's too much fun. Not that I ever want to do that again, but…" He shrugged, then turned to offer one final wave to the crowd as they exited the arena. Ciaran and Gough were already waiting for them in the hall.

"You stand corrected," Gilderoy said to Gough.

"I never said you'd lose," he responded, "only that you didn't _need_ the victory."

"Nah, we totally proved you wrong," Artorias said, petty as ever.

"Close call though," Ciaran said. She went right up to Artorias and flicked his nose. "I bet even that was enough to drop your aura below the threshold."

"Nah, nah, it's fine."

Ciaran raised her scroll and, indeed, his aura had dropped to fifteen percent. "Totally proved you wrong," she echoed.

They made their way towards the colosseum landing pads, chatting idly between themselves. Ciaran brought up the topic of whom they ought to send to the finals; she suggested Artorias, but he put his vote in for Gilderoy, saying that if the finalists were anything like Pyrrha he'd rather just sleep.

"That was amazing!" as they came to the landing pads, Smough came in from the side, sweeping Gilderoy into a bone-crushing hug. "The whole thing with the mountain and the lightning was kinda bullshit, but-"

"Oh, believe me, I agree," Gilderoy said as Smough set him down.

"No praise for me?" Artorias asked, voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'm so very _hurt_ , Smough."

"Be nice, Artorias," Gough said.

"I'll consider it."

Smough shifted slightly, and looked away sheepishly. "Actually, wolf, I wanted to talk to you about something. In private."

Gilderoy started. "Smough-"

"Now's a better time than any," Smough said.

Gough glanced between them uncertainly. "What's going on?"

Gilderoy pursed his lips, then nodded. "You two go on ahead. We'll see you later," he said to Ciaran and Gough.

"You're all getting very serious about something," Gough said. "Forgive me if I'm a little concerned."

"Don't worry about it, little brother," Smough said. "I'm… making amends?"

"Very convincing," Artorias drawled.

"You're not helping," Gilderoy muttered.

"Come on," Ciaran said, tapping Gough on the arm. "What's the worst that can happen? Don't answer that." Gough seemed conflicted, but after a little tug from Ciaran he departed. Smough pulled Artorias and Gilderoy to the side, though they could still see the main walkway.

"What's the deal?" Artorias asked.

Smough looked away. "Professor Brim offered me an apprenticeship over the winter break," he said, "so I can earn a proper huntsman's license."

"…okay?"

Smough seemed uncertain how to continue, so Gilderoy stepped in. "There's a condition. Brim wants him to have written approval from certain people."

"And I'm one of them?"

Smough nodded. "Aye."

Artorias crossed his arms. "No."

"Be reasonable, Artorias-"

"I'm being reasonable," he snapped, cutting Gilderoy off. "Smough, you're a violent person, and a danger to those around you—and, unfortunately, not just the Grimm."

"I've changed."

"Have you?" Artorias challenged. "I don't know that. I suppose we haven't beaten each other to a bloody pulp yet, but there's still plenty of time."

"Don't be vindictive," Gilderoy said.

"I think I have every right to be!" He raised his voice, and a few people on their way out of the stadium glanced over, concerned. "You were expelled from Shade for a reason, Smough, and I have no reason to help you get another chance."

"What do you want me to say?" Smough roared. "I was wrong. I know that. And hell, I'm going to be wrong many, many times in the future, whether I'm a Huntsman or not."

"And Huntsman are supposed to be _heroes_ ," Artorias said. "We're not just killers of Grimm. We inspire hope. We make people feel _safe_ , so that they don't draw the Grimm in the first place. What have you ever done to inspire somebody, Smough?"

Smough didn't have a response to that. His fists clenched, and his jaw tensed, and for a moment Gilderoy thought he'd throw a punch. "I'm sorry," he said, the words clipped and forced. "Is that what you want to hear?"

"Well, it's one of those things you don't know you need until you have it, right? An apology. Wonderful. It makes _everything_ better."

"You're no hero either," Gilderoy said quietly. "By your own admission, you're no hero."

"Don't go there, Gil."

"You're vindictive. You're my friend, but you're one of the pettiest, most spiteful person I know."

"What are you-"

"You pretend it's all a big joke, but it's not, is it? Not always." Gilderoy shook his head. "Now isn't the time for that, Artorias."

He was silent for a time, eyes averted. Gilderoy watched him carefully; his shoulders slumped a little, and then he nodded. "Who else?" he asked.

"Team Kitetail and Team Indigo," Smough said.

"Have you talked to them?"

"Team Indigo won't sign."

"Then why the hell are you bothering to come to me?"

Smough paused, then shrugged. "I want to be better," he said. "I'm not giving up on this."

Artorias nodded, then fell silent again, deep in thought. Gilderoy cut in: "You could inspire him to be better."

"Oh, _shut up_ ," Artorias said. "Don't try that wishy-washy role model shit on me."

"That's a little hypocritical."

"But what was it? I'm petty and spiteful and I don't care. I don't like you, Smough, and I have no desire to change that." He turned to leave.

"Quelaan said she'd only sign if you did," Smough called. For some reason, it gave Artorias pause, and he came back after another moment. He watched Smough in silence, his eyes narrowed.

"Okay," he said. "I'll do it."

"Really?"

"What do I need to sign? Don't make me change my mind."

Gilderoy frowned, puzzled, but Smough produced his scroll and, after tapping through it to a certain screen, passed it over to Artorias with a stylus. Artorias scribbled something down on it, then passed it back, and wordlessly departed.

"Well," Smough said, "he actually signed it."

"I'm… gonna talk to him," Gilderoy said.

"Right. You probably should."

Gilderoy followed his teammate. "Hey!" he called, grabbing him by the arm just before they reached the transport ship. "You alright?"

He nodded and made to get on the ship. Gilderoy held him back. "I need to go to bed, Gil. It's been a long-ass day."

"What made you change your mind?" Gilderoy asked.

He looked down. "Quelaan should be better than me," he said.

Gilderoy nodded and let go. Artorias entered the transport, and the door closed not too long afterwards.

* * *

 **The brutality of Hunter v Hunter battles I tried to establish in Harvest v Gwyn continues here. While one might have expected the focus to have been on Gilderoy fighting Nora, upon writing it out it felt like it was... lacking. It's just a whole lot of different ways to say 'Gilderoy dodged'. Artorias v Pyrrha had a much nicer ebb and flow to it, so I chose their duel to be the centrepiece of the 2v2. I'm sure there are some people who foresaw this outcome, and I'm sure there are some who expected it to go the other way. That's why I liked this one far more than Harvest v Gwyn or Yang/Weiss v Neon/Flynt. It pits central characters against central characters. And, of course, the Greatshield of Artorias finally returns after ~15 chapters. He really gets his money's worth out of that 88 stability, I feel.**

 **Qrow, Ozpin, and Ironwood show their dark sides. That scene went in a direction I originally didn't intend for it to go in, but I think it suits them. They do shady stuff for the greater good.**

 **Next chapter - December 8th.**


	34. Chapter 33: Vordt of the Boreal Valley

_Dammit, she's here,_ Mercury thought, slipping back into the dorm. He'd been _kinda_ hoping that Cinder would be elsewhere, just because he fully expected her to be angry about the outcome of the fight she'd rigged. Mercury could say from experience that being near an angry Cinder was bad for his health.

He and Emerald wordlessly agreed not to greet her, given that she didn't greet them as they arrived, and Mercury to lay on his bed, pulling his scroll from his pocket to… well, to do _nothing,_ really. He'd never really had any time to himself before Beacon—even when it had just been him and his father—and didn't really know what to do with himself. Normally he'd do what little exercise could be done in the space of the dorm, but any kind of physical activity might draw a potentially angry Cinder's attention.

He stole a glance out of the corner of his eye. She actually didn't seem that concerned, flicking through what appeared to be Atlas' files on her scroll. He looked back up at his scroll, which he hadn't even bothered to turn on.

 _No sense wasting time_ , he thought, throwing his scroll to the side. He decided to take the plunge. "So," he said, "did you see the fight?"

"Mm-hmm."

"…has the plan changed?"

"As far as you're concerned? No," Cinder said, stowing her scroll. "It's fortunate that Team Gwyn has put forth their leader as their finalist. It gives me something to work with. I'd still rather it be the Nikos girl, but…" she trailed off and tilted her head to the side a little into a half shrug.

/-/

Art was woken by a sudden dull pain in his head. He groaned, pushing himself upright as the world came into focus; his scroll had been thrown at him, and it had fallen on the bed next to him, the screen lit up as it buzzed away.

"Huh?"

"It woke me up," Ciaran hissed.

"Is that my fault?"

"I absolutely blame you, so… yeah. It is." She slumped back down in her bed and turned away, pulling the covers back up.

Artorias looked to see if it had woken up Gough, but the massive man was still fast asleep. Gilderoy, at least, hadn't returned to the dorm that day. He was probably with Smough.

He sighed and checked the caller ID.

 _Hugo._ It was his contact from the north gate.

He supposed he should probably answer it.

He quietly ducked out into the corridor. "Hello?"

" _Ah, good, you're awake!"_

"I am now." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "What've you got for me?" It was probably fuck all.

" _Well, I'm_ pretty _sure it's not your guy…"_

"Great. Are we done?"

"… _but I met Pontiff Sulyvahn!"_ Hugo said. _"Hold on, I'll-"_

"You're religious?"

" _Well, no, but-"_

"Why by—what belief is this one? Then why by the gods-damned Deep are you sharing this with me?"

" _Woah, damn, chill,"_ Hugo said. _"Thing is, it was all kinda weird. He was all in civilian clothes—well, except that he was armed, but that's fair enough for anyone going outside the walls. Point is, I don't think he wanted to be recognised."_

It sounded interesting, to be sure, but for all he knew it was some weird religious pilgrimage. "Alright," Artorias said tiredly. "Thanks, Hugo. Is that all?"

" _Well, uh, when I called him out for, you know, being a semi-famous religious head and all, I had a little chat with him. Acted like a follower and all just so he wouldn't think it was weird. I got a photo with him—I think he only agreed for courtesy's sake, but really I just wanted evidence that he'd come through here."_

"And that's the only reason?" Artorias asked, eyebrow raised.

" _Hey, if he gets lost out there somebody'd want to know. Do you want the picture or not?"_

Why not? "Fine," Artorias said. "Thanks."

" _Not a problem. Uh, if this turns out to be a big deal, you don't think I might just_ maybe _deserve a little extra cash?"_

"I'm pretty sure I've already paid you three months' worth of your salary."

"… _actually it's closer to six."_

Damn, the council _really_ didn't care about government employees. "If it's useful, sure," Artorias said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Look, I gotta go-"

" _Right, right, I get it, it's late. I'll send it through in a second,"_ he said. The call ended abruptly and, true to his word, in a few seconds a new message arrived. Artorias opened it up.

It was a selfie, which itself made Artorias cringe a little. Hugo was holding the camera, grinning broadly; the man next to him had a hooked nose and purple eyes. He was wearing a cloak, though the cowl was thrown back, and over his shoulder poked the hilt of a sword wrapped loosely in cloth and leather.

Not all of it.

Artorias peered closer. The handle itself was vaguely concealed, as was the crossguard, but where the hilt met the blade it couldn't be covered so easily. The weapon was forged of bronze or brass—Artorias couldn't tell—but a slightly lighter metal shone through in an intricate pattern.

It looked like…

No. Sulyvahn? Artorias didn't know him personally of course, but to think that someone so high up in Atlas' hierarchy was involved with that creature, with the Fume Knight, perhaps with the Maidens themselves? And Ironwood didn't know—or, at least, Ironwood hadn't said anything.

He needed to be sure.

He shot a message to Winter, and, when she didn't reply after a minute, called instead in case she'd slept through the notification.

" _I hope this is isn't a drunk-"_

"I need a still from the footage of the Fume Knight and the hooded guy," he said. "Something with a clear shot of his sword."

" _The Fume Knight or the-"_

"The hooded dude! Think I don't know what the Fume Knight's sword looks like? Gods…"

" _Calm down. I'll find it."_

"Sorry, sorry, long day, probably going to be a long night too. Here," he tapped his scroll, and a moment later he was notified that Hugo's photo was sent. "This is what I'm comparing it to."

A few moments later, Winter sent an attachment. It was from early on in the duel, when the Fume Knight and his opponent had still been staring each other down. Winter hummed to herself. _"It looks… it could be a match."_

The handle tapered in to meet the pommel and the crossguard in the same way in each photo. The width of the crossguard too seemed to be a match. The faint glow cast by the embers of the Fume Knight's blade distorted the colours somewhat—and it was a little blurry anyway—but the engraved pattern seemed pretty close.

"I'd say it is."

Winter grimaced. _"If we're wrong…"_ she shook her head, dispelling the notion. _"That's the gate, right? When was this taken?"_

"Tonight. He's gone outside the walls. I'll meet you at your ship."

" _No, no. If Sulyvahn's guilty and he sees an Atlesian ship patrolling around outside the walls, he'd hide."_

"This is the royal road gate. You know, the _north_ one. We'd never find him on foot." Well, that was assuming that he'd gone at least as far as the Forever Fall treeline.

" _That's not what I'm saying, you boob. We'll commandeer a Bullhead."_

That made a little more sense. "Oh. Right." He hung up and made his way back into the dorm to grab his weapons and armour.

"You're in a hurry," Ciaran said quietly.

Artorias paused, one arm in the sleeve of his jerkin. "Go back to sleep."

Ciaran was already out of bed, reaching for her own armour piled neatly at the foot of her bed. "What are you doing?" Artorias hissed.

"You're going to get in a fight. Your aura's low. I'm coming with you."

That was true. It hadn't fully recovered from his arena match yet, though he didn't know exactly how low it was and wasn't bothered enough to check. "If all goes well, there won't be a fight."

Ciaran turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised, her face deadpan.

"I'll have Winter to watch my back."

"If I know Winter—and I think I know her well enough—she'd put the mission first."

"You don't even know what the mission is!"

"Why are you so against this?"

Artorias rolled his eyes, tightening the strap on his pauldron. "Fine," he said. "Everything I say tonight is classified. Everything you _see_ tonight is classified."

"That sounds like the start of a really weird pickup line."

"Oh, ha. I'm serious, C. You don't know how deep this goes."

"And you do?"

He paused. He hadn't meant to say that. And, all things considered… he didn't know. Ozpin had certainly told him a lot, but after a certain point, everything was on the table—and the headmaster had left plenty of gaps for June to fill. "That's classified too," he said.

She shrugged and reached for her tracers. "Fine by me."

They slipped out of the dorm, shutting the door on Gough's quiet snoring, and set off through Beacon's winding halls at a brisk pace. As he led her to Beacon's docks, Artorias' thoughts drifted back to what he'd said to Ciaran. _You don't know how deep this goes._ Now that he'd put it into words, it was terrifying. Gods. Lords. Legends. Myths. And it all had to be kept secret.

And Ozpin had messaged him earlier in the evening to tell him to be at his office the next day, somewhere around noon. He wondered why. Hopefully it wasn't for another almost drug-induced-like trip through the Ringed City. As interesting as the place was, Artorias had no desire to go back.

When they reached the docks, it wasn't hard to find Winter. She was in front of the only Bullhead docks, speaking in hushed tones to a pilot.

"We good to go?" he asked, coming up alongside Winter.

Winter raised an eyebrow at Ciaran. "Evening," she said.

"Been a while," Ciaran responded. "Artorias already gave me the spiel about how classified this all is, don't worry."

"As long as you've taken that to heart," Winter said. "This pilot has agreed to fly for us."

"Going out over Forever Fall, right?" His voice was low and gravelly, but strained as though it wasn't his natural voice. Artorias tilted his head and narrowed his eyes at him.

Artorias couldn't see his eyes through the visor of his helmet, but he must have caught the wolf looking. "Just got a cold is all," the pilot said. He cleared his throat. "Let's go."

They boarded the Bullhead, and after a moment or so it took off, shuddering a little more than Artorias was expecting.

"Not gonna lie, when you said 'commandeer' I expected you to just throw some poor pilot out of the ship and fly it yourself," Artorias said.

"This is kind of my job, you know," the pilot called back from the cockpit. "I mean, this and flying aimlessly back and forth between Beacon and Vale until the existential dread sets in…"

That killed the conversation before it began, and for a while they flew in silence. It was only as they were approaching the airspace over Forever Fall that Ciaran spoke. "So," she said, "what are we actually doing?"

"You didn't see fit to mention that?" Winter asked, raising an eyebrow at Artorias.

"Well, you know how it is. You try and sneak out on a mission but your teammate's like 'oh but your aura's low and what if you die'-"

"Would that be so bad?" Ciaran asked.

Winter waved a hand, gesturing for them to be silent. "Do you know who Aisling Sulyvahn is?"

"Wait, we're going after a _Councilman_?" Ciaran asked. "I thought this would just be, I don't know, like the White Fang thing. Small fry like that." Ciaran's eyes grew wide. "This isn't an assassination, is it?"

Winter shook her head. "We're just observing him-"

"Don't try to dress it up," Artorias cut in. "We're spying. Unless he proves himself guilty. Or gets attacked by Grimm. We should probably step in if that happens."

"If all goes well," Ciaran echoed. "Right."

/-/

Vordt's great hammer slammed into the Beowolf's windpipe, crushing it before it could call for help. With a foot and a great heave, he rolled the rasping monster over to expose its less-armoured underbelly and then swung down, shattering its ribcage. The beast spasmed briefly, then fell still and began to dissolve into black mist.

It wasn't the first that Vordt had had to kill on his long journey into Forever Fall, but he'd made a point of taking them out silently and efficiently. Forever Fall was dangerous even on a good day. At night—and at a time when the Grimm were rather more active than usual—it was downright deadly.

It was only a few more minutes' walk before he reached his destination; a clearing in the forest some way from the road. The Pontiff had yet to arrive; he glanced upward, half expecting Sulyvahn's ship to be descending, but there was only a Bullhead circling the area. A patrol from Vale, no doubt. Nothing out of the ordinary, but he'd rather not be spotted. He stuck to the clearing's edge, leaning against a tree but being careful not to scrape against it. If he drew sap, even a little, the smell would attract every Grimm in a hundred-metre radius—Beowolves from even further—and though he'd been thorough in clearing his path, he didn't want to know what else lurked in the underbrush.

It was rather cold, and though that normally wouldn't bother him, he'd left his coat on his ship before leaving it to sail on alone. The coat would be evidence enough. Let Atlas come up with whatever they wanted as to what had happened to his body. 'Eaten by Grimm' would probably be their conclusion. He removed his helm and held it under his arm, breathing in the cold air. At the very least, it was refreshing.

After some time, he saw a hooded figure enter the clearing from the south. The Pontiff was here.

This was his last chance, he realised. He could sneak around and make his way back to Vale. Unless it was buffeted heavily by the wind, his airship would probably reach the Vytal coast before crashing; that was a few weeks on foot. He'd have to lay low until then to sell the deception, but then, he'd have to lie low just to hide from the Pontiff. He doubted that Aisling Sulyvahn was forgiving of betrayal.

This was his last chance to change his mind. To not abandon his old life.

Again he thought of his life. In the military, he was a hero. A role model. People looked up to him; needed him: his family especially.

And he'd continue being a hero, he reasoned. Just a hero that people would ever see. A hero in the shadows, working to usher in the Deep.

He stepped forwards into the clearing. The Pontiff watched him approach. His throat tightened. He reasoned that it was nerves. Excitement? Fear? Why meet here? What would his future hold?

"Good," the Pontiff said. "I was worried you wouldn't make it before morning."

"What do you ask of me?"

Sulyvahn stepped forwards and drew his sword. It hardly seemed to reflect the moonlight, Vordt noted, save for the pattern engraved where the handle met the blade which seemed to glow pale and bright. "I would name you the second Outrider," Sulyvahn said. "Do you accept?"

Vordt didn't know what an Outrider was. This was the ceremonial side of things, he supposed. "I accept," Vordt said.

He saw Sulyvahn smile beneath his hood. "Do you know what my semblance is, Vordt?"

Vordt frowned, puzzled, but shook his head. "No."

"Don your helmet. Kneel."

Vordt obeyed.

"Breathe. Use your own semblance."

And again, Vordt obeyed. Air flowed from his mouth, and though normally his semblance would lower its temperature so much it would frost over the red leaves that coated the ground, here it was little more than a chill.

"My semblance suppresses the semblances of others."

And then the Pontiff touched his hand to his servant's chest. Vordt felt pain run through him, right to his very core. Here at its source, the Pontiff's semblance was excruciating. What was a semblance if not the purest manifestation of one's soul? He could hardly breathe for the pain. He could hardly think; he hardly knew who he was. His legs felt weak, and he collapsed beneath the strain, falling to the forest floor. It offered a brief reprieve, and he gasped for breath before the Pontiff himself knelt to press his hands down on Vordt's chest. On base instinct alone he spasmed, writhing in an attempt to break free, but the Pontiff's grip was iron.

His aura dripped from him, coagulating into a dark fog that sheathed his limbs and coated the forest floor, spilling outwards, leaving him alone and vulnerable and cold. There was no more Vordt; only the beast. Bone stretched and muscles warped and skin blackened, fusing with metal and Dust as his armour melted into him. His body rippled and grew to resemble what a soulless husk ought; a creature of Grimm. Then the Pontiff withdrew his hand, and the beast's aura came rushing back to him, still whole but fundamentally changed, warped almost beyond recognition. A throaty roar escaped him as the tattered remnants of his soul tried to fix him, to make him Vordt once more.

But it was no use.

The Pontiff glanced upwards, and his gaze tracked something out of the beast's sight. "We may have company," he said. "Stand."

The beast opened his mouth to speak, but only a guttural growl came out, muffled by the visor that had fused to his jaw.

"Stand!" commanded the Pontiff. This time, the beast obeyed, coming to stand on all fours.

"It's not an exact science," mused the Pontiff, circling the beast slowly, inspecting what was left of the once proud man. "But you did turn out quite magnificently, didn't you?" He continued pacing, circling around the beast, until he came around in front of him once more and halted. "You will do as I command," the Pontiff said.

Another growl. A half-broken memory; the beast knew that he was once devoted to this man. Why? He didn't know for sure any more. He must have had some other purpose, but it was lost to him.

"What name, what title have you retained? Specialist?"

Specialist? What kind of a name was that? He growled in response.

"Outrider?"

No. He didn't know what the hell that was either.

"Vordt?"

Vordt. Yes. That was his name, once. His head hung into a bow.

"Curious. The Dancer didn't answer to her old name." The Pontiff shrugged, then crouched down and retrieved the great hammer that had fallen by Vordt's side. He pressed it into Vordt's right claw. "Come," he said. "We should go." He turned south—and, just as he did so, three figures emerged from the trees.

"Vordt…" whispered the woman with white hair. "What have you done to him?"

For the first time since the Pontiff's arrival, Vordt felt his throat clear. He must have stopped channelling his semblance. "Vordt," Sulyvahn said, his voice clear, "kill."

Vordt could do that. He stood up as best he could on his hind legs, planting his mace against the ground and leaning against it for balance, and roared. The air before him became a blizzard, and black fog dripped from his aura, coating the clearing in darkness.

/-/

"I'll get Sulyvahn!" Winter shouted. A glyph appeared beneath her, and she disappeared into the darkness.

Artorias hefted his sword. He wasn't accustomed to not being able to see in the dark, and it was far more nerve-wracking than he'd ever expected. He could hear the thing she'd called Vordt shambling in the darkness. A jolt of his aura turned his gauntlet into a shield. No sense taking chances. There was no way he'd be able to parry a hammer like that.

Its shambling grew louder, and after another moment turned into a rapid clanking. The beast appeared, looming out of the shadows, sweeping its hammer low against the ground from left to right, then right to left. Artorias caught both on his shield, though each blow forced him back a step. Ciaran leapt over its swipes and dashed behind the beast, dragging her tracers along its flank as she went. Its aura crackled the colour of the sky.

It was big. Perhaps as big as an Ursa Major, but, armoured and armed (and with an aura to boot) it seemed far more dangerous. The hammer held in its right claw wasn't much smaller than Smough's—though that was still not an inconsiderable size—and to the beast it seemed little more than a child's plaything. Ciaran climbed atop its back and stabbed downwards, prompting another angry spark of aura; it roared in pain and twisted, trying to throw her from its back. Artorias took the opportunity to strike, and scored a single blow across its right shoulder before its attention returned to him. His shield came up too late, and he was thrown backwards, the breath being forced out of him as he slammed into a tree.

"Move!" he heard Ciaran shout. The beast came lumbering towards him out of the darkness once more, weapon raised. He rolled as it came crashing down, and the tree splintered, sap oozing from its shattered trunk. The beast roared again as he came to his feet, and he raised his shield against the wave of bone-chilling air; it followed up with a reckless charge, swinging its hammer wildly. Artorias dodged to the side, and it blew straight past. He caught sight of Ciaran clinging to a chink in its armour before it disappeared once more into the fog.

He heard a sickening crunch, and was afraid for a moment that Ciaran had been crushed. But then there was a sound of a tree groaning and splintering, and the rustling of leaves followed by an almighty crash. Then came the beast again in another charge; Artorias ducked the rapid, aimless swings of the hammer and sliced at its back-left leg as it passed by. It stumbled, fell, and rolled.

"Ciaran!"

She'd relinquished her grip as the beast had rolled over her, and though her aura had protected her from the worst of it she'd been left gasping for breath, vulnerable on the ground. Gritting his teeth, he stepped in front of her, raising his shield once more. This time, when the beast struck, he gave no ground, though every blow left his arm aching and pushed his aura closer and closer to the edge.

He heard a howl that made his blood run cold.

The Grimm were coming.

"Back!" Ciaran called at last. He retreated rapidly, and though the beast tried to stay on top of him it was distracted once more by Ciaran diving beneath it and stabbing at its legs. It grunted in anger—or pain, he really couldn't tell—and whirled around, swinging wildly once more. Ciaran ducked the blow and raised her left hand, jammed her revolver into the slit in its visor, and fired off a full six shots. Its aura flared and sputtered once more, and it staggered backwards.

Artorias followed, sword raised. The blade bit deep into its right shoulder, punching through its aura. It did little to deter the beast; its left hand swept low to grab Artorias by the leg. He relinquished his grip on his sword as he was thrown unceremoniously away. His back struck a tree, and he felt his aura give way with a final _crack_ as he fell to the ground.

He clambered back to his feet slowly. The darkness began to recede, swirling around them and gathering around the beast, seeping into its body through its metal-laden skin. Its aura sparked back to life, now tinged a sickly grey.

It tore Artorias' sword from the wound in its shoulder and dropped it at its feet, then raised its head to the sky and roared.

"Behind you!" Artorias whirled around, raising his shield; a Beowolf's teeth scraped along its surface, and he staggered backwards. One mistake. That was all it would take. One mistake, and he'd be dead. He ducked the Beowolf's next swipe, and jammed the edge of his shield into its belly. He pushed upwards and forwards with all his might, flipping the Grimm over and behind him onto its back, then spun to drive the shield's tapered tip into its chest. He felt something crack, but there was no time to strike again; he could hear more approaching, and quickly.

Ciaran had latched onto the beast's back once more, and was doing her best to steer it away, stabbing at the chinks in its armour as they went. It opened up space for him to retrieve his sword. It felt heavy in his hand, but he swung it all the same, putting the downed Beowolf out of its misery.

More came charging from the trees. He backed away, swiping at the air in front of him to deter their approach. One was braver than the rest and rushed him; he met it in the middle, slicing at its outstretched jaws with his sword, but the others took it as an opening. With his shield he bashed away one that approached from the left, but another managed to score a long, deep gash along his arm with its claws. He clenched his teeth, suppressing the instinct to scream from the pain, and dropped his shield, grabbing his sword with both hands to fend off the frenzied onslaught that followed. He backpedalled in a panic, glancing back only once to check that he wouldn't trip on anything.

That was the mistake.

One of the Beowolves leapt at him, throwing its full weight against him; he tried to shove it away awkwardly, holding his injured arm against the blade for strength, but it was no use. He fell to the ground. He managed to hold it at bay with his sword caught lengthways in its mouth, but its jaws were snapping closer and closer, and his arms were growing tired, and there was blood—his blood—spilling into his eyes, and there were more of them, so many more of them circling around.

The beast came charging through, Ciaran still atop its back. It was swinging its hammer wildly, trying to knock her off any way it could; one swing clobbered the Beowolf atop Artorias, sending it flying deeper into the forest. Other Beowolves were hit too, and the bulk of the survivors turned their attention to what they perceived to be the bigger threat—and, he guessed, maybe even the more fearful.

He climbed to his feet, turning in a quick circle to see if any others were still watching him. There was one—no, two—stood together towards the edge of the clearing, their eyes fixed on him.

He was exhausted. He knew that. He hefted his sword onto his shoulder to support its weight, and raised his left arm as far as it would go to beckon them closer.

They charged, lunging one after the other. He shrugged his sword from his shoulder and guided its momentum with his good arm, catching one Beowolf with its flat.

What was a Hunter without aura? A well-trained fool. He stared at the Beowolf's outstretched claws, trying without a hope to bring his sword to bear in time to fend it off. To his surprise, he succeeded—and missed.

He blinked tiredly.

Then again.

The Beowolf was suspended in the air by a black glyph, hardly visible even to his faunus eyes. Winter came up to it from the side and decapitated it with a single stroke of her sabre before letting it drop to the ground.

"Oh," Artorias said.

"Don't pass out just yet," she said, her voice low. She spun her sabre and stabbed it into the ground; a glyph appeared beneath her and another behind her, and from them flowed Grimm that glowed blue and white. Ciaran leapt off the beast's back just before it was tackled to the ground by an Ursa Major. The Beowolves that nipped at its heels and threatened to catch Ciaran as she landed were swarmed by Nevermores.

"Cool," Artorias said, his voice faint.

The ground rushed up to meet him.

* * *

 **I planned to have another little bit at the end there to go over what happened to Sulyvahn, but this is a good place to end the chapter, I think.**

 **As a general rule of thumb, I try not to make semblances overpowered, but if it's for a villain I let them get a little bit crazier. At least Sulyvahn can't make you a weird hybrid human-Grimm thing unless you're actively trying to use your semblance while in direct and prolonged physical contact with him, right?**

 **And what's with the weird hybrid human-Grimm thing anyway? That actually came from a hypothetical 'what if this fic but Bloodborne?' thing I wrote up, in which function of the Old Blood - healing things but then eventually corrupting people - was taken over by aura. The idea was that aura worked the same as in canon RWBY, except sometimes when it was drained it would regenerate a little bit... wrong. Eventually, it would become so twisted that it would warp the minds and bodies of the Hunters as well. Basically, Vordt and the Dancer are more beast of Yharnam than creature of Grimm.**

 **I almost wrote that Artorias' arm broke when he's blocking Vordt for _Artorias of the Abyss_ parallels, but then decided against it because, well, _Artorias of the Abyss_ parallels. Gotta save it for Oolacile, right? I still ended up injuring it, partly to illustrate a) that when push comes to shove, he won't stop shoving until he's physically incapable and b) that despite their training, Hunters without aura are pretty heavily handicapped.**

 **Next chapter - December 15th.**


	35. Chapter 34: Fall

Artorias woke up slowly, bit by bit. First it was the sensation of light filtering through his closed eyelids. Then it was the texture of linen against his skin, and though his left arm pained him a little, it was a sort of dull muted pain, blocked somewhat either by his own weariness or his aura. He could hear the steady _beep_ sound of some unknown machine; of feet moving lightly on a tiled floor; the soft _thud_ of a light object being gently placed down and the _shink_ of a knife being dragged across wood.

That was Gough, then.

He opened his eyes.

"Took you long enough," Gough rumbled. Artorias rolled his head to the side. His teammate was seated in a chair far too small for him, a handkerchief in his lap to catch the wood shavings he was creating.

"Hmm?"

"You've been awake for two minutes, haven't you? Your breathing pattern changed."

"Uh… sure." He hadn't been timing it, so it wasn't like he had any idea. "How long have I been out?"

Gough shrugged. "You were brought in last night. Ciaran wouldn't say what happened."

"She's alright?"

"Sleeping, last I heard. I messaged her when you woke up. Gil dropped by earlier as well. He's gone to practice."

Artorias pushed himself upright with his right arm and glanced around. There was a small table next to him, over which loomed some sort of medical machine he didn't know the name of. Atop the table was a tray with various pieces of equipment, and next to it was his pauldron and his jerkin, cleaned of blood, though the left sleeve had been cut and torn beyond repair. He hadn't yet been to the Beacon infirmary, but if he had to guess, this was it. The equipment was a pretty big tell. That and the doctor making her way towards him.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, swiping her scroll along a machine next to the bed.

"Alive," Artorias responded. He tried to push himself upright, and though it caused a jolt of pain up his left arm he succeeded. He winced a little and glanced down at his arm; stitches snaked their way along a crooked, jagged wound that ran all the way from his elbow to his wrist.

The doctor looked at her scroll. "It would certainly seem so," she said dryly. "You lost a lot of blood, but your aura seems stable enough. You don't intend to do anything too strenuous for…" she trailed off, humming in thought, "for another nineteen hours, do you?"

"He never does anything strenuous," Gough teased.

"That's clearly a lie," the doctor said, frowning.

"Nineteen hours? That's oddly specific."

"I've gotten rather good at judging the effect of aura on the healing process," she said. "Unless yours is abnormally powerful—which, from what I can tell, it is not—I'd estimate that a wound like that would take sixteen hours to heal when aided by an aura at-"

"Right, right, I get it," Artorias said, waving her off with his right hand. "Does walking count as 'strenuous activity'?"

"As long as you're not walking on your hands. In fact, I'd recommend you wear a sling."

"Fine by me. What about talking?"

"No."

"Eating?"

Gough snorted.

"Of course not."

"Then I'm good to go. I'm allowed to leave, right?"

"The classic Hunter mentality, I see," the doctor said. "Just a moment." She reached for the tray next to her, producing a triangular bandage. "Hold your arm for me, please."

He obliged, and she wrapped the bandage beneath it, then tied it around his shoulder into a sling. "If the stitches tear, come back immediately," she instructed. "Once it's healed you should come back to get them removed. Nothing worse than a patient who thinks they can remove stitches properly."

"Just with scissors, right?"

"My point exactly," she said. "If there are any problems, don't hesitate to come back. Strike that; _do_ come back if you have any problems at all. Aura or not, that's a serious injury."

"I will," Artorias promised. The doctor nodded once, then headed off to check on the only other patient in the infirmary. Artorias pushed the linens away and swung his legs off the edge off the bed. He glanced off the edge, checking for his boots; they'd been left neatly on the floor for him. He slipped them on, though he didn't bother trying to lace them up with one hand, and reached for his jerkin, wrapping it around his pauldron and carrying them both in the crook of his good arm.

"Gonna need a new one," he muttered.

"In light of recent events, plate armour might be a more fitting choice," Gough said.

"Hmm. Maybe." He pushed himself out of the bed and cautiously stood upright, half-expecting the world to start spinning. He felt a little light-headed—fair enough, really—but felt comfortable enough to walk.

"So," Gough said, once they were out in the empty corridor, "are you going to tell me what happened?"

"It's classified."

"I don't think I care, and I don't think you should either. I'm sure I have a few brownie points with Winter."

Artorias glanced sidelong at him, eyebrow raised. "Nobody said-"

"She came by."

"And she didn't tell you anything?"

"Nothing useful. She was in a hurry."

"Then neither will I." He wasn't going to risk saying anything without checking in with Winter first. He could imagine that conflict with an Atlesian councilmen counted as 'highly classified'. "Look, I get it," Artorias said. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you worry."

"But you did it all the same."

"Hence the apology."

They walked in silence for a time. They passed by a few groups of students on their way back to the dorm, and Artorias often heard the same name on their lips: Sulyvahn. Word had spread quickly, it seemed, though exactly how much had gotten out was still uncertain.

They were only a few corridors from their destination when Gough spoke again. "I'm not upset," he said.

"You did that whole passive-aggressive thing."

"I know I _shouldn't_ be upset," Gough corrected himself. "This is our job, or it will be. Maybe we'll go our separate ways after graduation. Maybe not. But we'll all get ourselves in plenty of danger either way. We'll earn our fair shares of scars, and some of them will be from circumstances out of our control. But you _chose_ to go out on low aura."

"In my defense, it was pretty important. And I was with Winter and Ciaran."

"For all the good that did you."

"Well, yeah. I'd be dead otherwise."

That clearly wasn't the right thing to say. Gough fell silent, but Artorias could feel the frustration emanating from the larger man. "Look, I can be a pretty stupid person sometimes, and I'm probably gonna keep making stupid decisions," Artorias continued. "But I'll clue you in as best I can in the future, alright?"

"That's not the point."

"Why not? Being stupid together seems like a perfectly good way to not die apart." He pushed open the door to their dorm with his good hand. Ciaran was snoring softly on her bed, though she began to stir at the sound of their entrance. Artorias tossed his ruined jerkin on his bed unceremoniously and went rummaging through his clothes for a shirt.

"Oh good. You're alive," Ciaran said, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

"You sound almost disappointed," he teased. Artorias shrugged his arm out of the sling, threw on a blue shirt, tugged the sling back out through the shirt's neck, then awkwardly slipped his arm back into it. He checked his scroll with his free hand; it was a little past ten in the morning. He still had plenty of time before his meeting with Ozpin. "So, here's a life lesson for the both of you: never pass out on an empty stomach, because you'll be absolutely starving by the time you wake up."

"Noted," Ciaran said dryly.

"Why am I the only one even a little perturbed by-"

"Nobody who is _actually_ perturbed ever _says_ perturbed, Gough," Ciaran said. "And again, Wolfy, I told you so."

"Yeah, yeah…" he waved her off.

"I feel that this warrants more than an 'I told you so'," Gough said.

"Feel free to berate him, by all means," Ciaran said. "I've given up trying."

"See? She gets it." Artorias turned to face Gough, looking him directly in the eyes. "Come on. Give it to me. Shout at me, Gough. You have every right."

Gough's jaw clenched, and for a moment Artorias thought he actually would, but then he averted his eyes. Gough was good at breaking up conflicts, not starting them. Artorias almost felt disappointed.

"I'm going for food," Artorias said. "Feel free to join me."

In the end, only Ciaran came with him. Gough departed, fidgeting with his hands, to go find Gilderoy. On their way to the cafeteria, Ciaran filled him in on events after he'd fallen unconscious, their conversation halting briefly whenever they passed by other students in the halls.

Winter had pursued Sulyvahn, but he'd been able to prevent her from using her semblance—how, neither of them were quite sure—and had fled entirely once the Grimm had shown up. He'd found their Bullhead and taken it for himself, likely killing the pilot or leaving him for the Grimm (they'd found his helmet on the forest floor). Then Winter had come back to save their asses.

They'd managed to pick off the Beowolves, and with her semblance Winter had been able to subdue Vordt—the strange armoured beast Sulyvahn had commanded, she reminded him. Ciaran didn't know where she'd taken Vordt, but Artorias guessed he was in custody on Ironwood's airship. They'd called for an evacuation, and Artorias had been rushed to the infirmary.

"I don't know much else," she said. "Ironwood's keeping a lid on it, but people have already noticed that Sulyvahn has disappeared."

"That was quick," Artorias said, frowning as his sandwich threatened to fall apart. It was surprisingly difficult to hold it together with one hand. "Does anyone in Vale really care that much?"

"It's not so much Vale as Beacon, from what I can tell," Ciaran said. "I mean, he's been here a little over a week. I imagine the Atlesian exchange students would care."

Artorias nodded. That made sense. He probably had some followers from the other kingdoms too. "Thanks, C."

"I didn't quite catch that, could you repeat it for me?"

He grinned. "Thanks for filling me in."

She raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

"Thank you for not letting me die."

"I think you mean 'saving your life'."

"Wasn't that Winter?"

"It was a team effort. Give credit where credit is due."

"As long as the credit is to you?"

"Precisely."

/-/

Cinder Fall was not at all pleased.

Sulyvahn had been a difficult to deal with, sure, but at least she'd known where he was. But now?

How was she supposed to take him down if she couldn't even find him? And, with only one more sleep until her plan would— _should_ —come to fruition, it was hardly like she could send Emerald and Mercury out to find him. Raime would be useless on that front—though she certainly had a use for him once Sulyvahn was _actually found_.

"This doesn't ruin our plan with the Maiden, does it?" Emerald asked. And no, truth be told, it didn't. Cinder _had_ worked out how to use Sulyvahn to her advantage in the matter, though it certainly wasn't necessary, but still…

It was frustrating. Nobody had Salem's ear the way Sulyvahn did. Undermining his conspiracy would earn her some favour and respect, not just from Salem but from the others; from Tyrian and Watts and Hazel. And what she wouldn't give to rub Watts' face in something like this, right under their very noses…

Her scroll buzzed. She snatched it up, checking the caller ID.

"I hope you have good news."

" _Woah, someone got off on the wrong side of the bed. I have good news_ and _bad news, all intertwined into one piece of tastefully bland neutral news,"_ Lapp said.

Cinder said nothing, assuming her narrowed eyes and furrowed brow would get her point across. Lapp rolled his eyes. _"Sulyvahn's gone to ground. That's the bad part."_

"I'm well aware of it," Cinder said.

" _Ah, see, here's the good bit: I know where he is. He's hiding under the church. Probably a secret passage or something. Might just be a cellar, though."_

"You said you knew."

" _And I_ do _know, more-or-less. Just not the exact parameters of it all. I don't like churches much, see. Haven't been inside that one,"_ he said indignantly. _"Aren't you going to ask_ how _I know?"_

If it had been Emerald or Mercury? No, she wouldn't have asked. But she was curious enough about Lapp to bite. "Go ahead," she said.

" _Because I transported him part of the way there, and followed him the rest of the way. Now, you're probably thinking—why not just stab him in the back? Believe me, backstabbing's my specialty, but it's hard to get behind him when he's got a sword to my throat, you know? Especially_ that _sword—long story, but it's-"_

"I strongly regret allowing you to open your mouth. You're _certain_ he's under the church?"

" _As of three in the morning? Yes. Sure, he may have moved, but I feel like somebody'd have noticed. Especially with all those robots Ironwood's got going around the place. Nevermind that. I have a little question of my own."_

Cinder chose to wait for him to ask rather than prompt it. Not only was it a petty show of power, it meant she didn't have to speak with the man. As useful as he was, she'd never found anybody quite so exhausting to converse with.

" _When does_ it _start?"_

"Tomorrow night."

" _And you have a plan for Sulyvahn?"_

Now that she knew where he was? "Yes."

" _Does it involve me?"_

"It could." She'd rather use Lapp than Raime for sure, but…

" _Oh, no, I didn't mean it that way. Just making sure you're not banking on it; I'll be busy, you see. Not_ super _busy or anything—it's just one little thing, and sure, it's important, but… ah, you get where I'm coming from, don't you?"_ He waved it off, then his face shifted very subtly—it took Cinder a moment to place it, but his impish smile relaxed into a more natural one. _"I've worked with worse people, Cinder. Enjoy your victory."_ He ended the call.

/-/

"Sulyvahn's work?"

"Partly," Artorias responded.

Glynda Goodwitch nodded. The elevator continued to rise up Beacon tower, humming softly. Artorias knew he was late, but hey—he was also injured, and he was no less late than the usually-punctual Glynda Goodwitch herself.

"Any idea who else is at this little meet-and-greet?" he asked.

"Qrow Branwen, though it would hardly surprise me if he's even later than we are. General Ironwood _was_ going to make an appearance, but he's busy dealing with the Atlesian council. It seems word of your altercation with the Pontiff made its way north."

Artorias grimaced. "They're not pissed at me, am I?"

"I believe you've slipped under their radar; you'd have likely heard by now otherwise," Glynda explained. "Winter and Ironwood will take the heat."

Artorias winced.

"I'm certain they can handle it. They're more accustomed to politics than you are."

"It still sucks."

"Trust me when I tell you it's for the best. As long as she and James are the only ones calling for his arrest, it remains Atlas business only. But you're Vale-born attending Shade academy. If you get too heavily involved, this becomes an international incident. It's already bad enough that it's happening on Valean soil."

"They've put out an arrest warrant?"

"Not yet. General Ironwood needs a majority from the Atlesian council to do it legally. I'm sure he'll get it; Sulyvahn's silence will be telling."

Artorias nodded. He'd have to sit out any manhunt for at least a day anyway, until his arm healed and his aura fully recovered.

"Did Professor Ozpin make you aware of the nature of today's meeting?"

"Not at all."

Glynda sighed. "I suppose if we're going to be late I should fill you in. How much has he told you about Amber?"

"Who?"

"The Fall Maiden."

"She was injured, right? Awaiting medical treatment, or something like that. Why? Is she getting worse?"

Glynda nodded.

"So, this is about finding a new Maiden?"

"Not exactly." She pursed her lips before continuing. "We've already chosen the next Fall Maiden. Today, we're asking her to accept the burden, and to ensure that she inherits the power."

"Make Amber think about her before she dies? That's all we need to do, right?"

"It's a little more complicated than that. I believe Ozpin wants you hear not just because you're June's representative—"

"Okay, I'm a little more than that, but go on."

"—but also because you're one of the new Maiden's peers. Having somebody she's more familiar with around ought to ease some of the tension."

"…who is it?"

The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open.

Qrow, leaning against a pillar, offered them a short nod. Ozpin was seated behind his desk, eyes already trained on them in his usual calculating gaze. And sitting across from him, looking over their shoulder at them, was Pyrrha.

"Sorry we're late," Glynda said. Artorias followed her lead and stepped out of the elevator, his eyes fixed on Pyrrha.

Why her? He supposed it made sense; she'd be safe in Beacon's walls for another three years, at least. But from what he'd heard from Ozpin, being a Maiden was a burden. It was lonely, it was a responsibility, and it presented a constant danger to one's wellbeing. Could Pyrrha handle that? Sure. He thought so, at least. But did she deserve that?

It would be easier, he thought, if it were somebody he didn't know. But it wouldn't be any less wrong.

"Wait," Pyrrha said, turning to look at Ozpin. "What is this? Who are you?" the accusation in her voice was clear.

"You know who we are," Glynda said. "We're still the same teachers and headmasters and peers you met when you arrived at Beacon."

"Except we've got a little part-time job," Qrow said, kicking off from the pillar to stand alongside them.

"I'm more of an intern, really," Artorias said, earning a sharp glance from Glynda. "What? I'm new to it and I don't get paid." He laughed nervously, but it died down under her glare.

"We are the protectors of this world," Ozpin said, "and we need your help. Come." He stood, and gestured for her to do the same. "There is something you must see."

For a moment, Artorias feared Ozpin would put her through the same Ringed City routine as he'd gone through. But they were all instead directed to the elevator. Ozpin swiped his scroll over the terminal, then punched in a series of numbers. The elevator began to descend, and continued for some time—far longer than if they were going simply to the ground floor.

"…how long have you known about all this?" Pyrrha asked him quietly.

"A week. More-or-less."

"And your arm?"

"Classified, I think. It's fine."

She nodded, then glanced between them all. "Where are we going?"

Artorias shrugged. "The vault," Ozpin explained, "under the school."

After some time, the doors opened into a long hallway built dimly lit by candles that flickered green. Supporting pillars jutted out from the walls, casting long shadows across the polished floor. Ozpin and Qrow stepped out first, striding towards its distant end; Artorias, Glynda, and Pyrrha hung back a little. Pyrrha and Artorias both glanced around curiously; many alcoves were empty, but some were not. In one, held within a glass box, was a sceptre of black stone—perhaps obsidian. In another was a sundered warhorn, a pale blue feather laid atop its shattered remains. Artorias was surprised to see Glynda give it a wide berth.

"This place was built to house secrets," Ozpin said. "The things from Remnant's past that don't belong in the public eye."

"But it's also a place to keep the things we'd rather forget," Qrow added. "The… things we can't bring ourselves to destroy completely. For people in our line of work? There tend to be a lot of those things."

Pyrrha nodded. They walked in silence for a time, but as they came to a crossroads, she spoke. "I still don't understand," she said. "You said I was next in line to receive the Maiden's power. What did you mean by that?"

Artorias frowned. That was… oddly phrased. She wasn't 'next in line', as though there was some kind of strict order of inheritance. She'd been _chosen_ for this.

 _They_ had chosen her for this.

"The Maidens have existed for thousands of years. But much like in nature, the seasons change. No two summers are alike. When a Maiden dies, her power leaves her body and seeks out a new host, ensuring that the seasons are never lost, and that no individual can hold onto the power forever."

"…so, how does the power choose?"

"Through a series of stupid and convoluted rules."

"Qrow…"

"Hey, don't get mad 'cause I'm right!"

"It passes to whoever was in the Maiden's final thoughts," Artorias said. "That's my understanding, anyway."

"Near enough," Qrow said. "Unless that special someone is a dude, or some old hag. Then, the power goes to someone random, and our jobs get a lot harder."

"Why tell me all of this now? Why not wait until we've graduated?"

"Honestly? We've run out of time. I don't think you've noticed, but things are getting a lot scarier out in the world," Qrow said. "Tensions are high. The Grimm are growing stronger, more prevalent, and it's not going to be much longer before this peace we've all been enjoying so much goes out the window."

"…you're not talking about war?"

Nobody refuted her. In an alcove on Artorias' left hung a silver sword with intricate engravings on its hilt, crossguard, and running halfway up the blade, though those were slightly obscured by the cloth that wrapped around it.

"We can fill you in on the details once we know you're with us. For now, all you _need_ to know is that one of the Maidens was attacked, and for the first time in history, part of her power was stolen."

Artorias raised an eyebrow. This was the first he was hearing of it. It certainly explained why they were so concerned by Amber's condition.

Out of the darkness loomed a great machine, beeping occasionally. At its foot were two coffin-like containers with glass viewing panes; one was empty, and in the other was a girl with an ugly scar across her left eye.

Pyrrha's eyes widened. "Is that-"

"-the current Fall Maiden," Ozpin said. "Amber."

"She's… still alive?"

"Jimmy pulled through, for once," Qrow said. "Thing is, we don't know what will happen when she kicks the bucket."

"Won't her power just transfer to the next host?"

"Look who's been listening!" Qrow leaned in close to Ozpin, and even from where he was standing Artorias could smell the alcohol on the man's breath. "She _is_ smart!"

"Under normal circumstances? Yes," Glynda said. "But we can't be sure who that is. It's not uncommon for the last thoughts of the slain to be of their attacker. And, what's worse, we've never seen a Maiden's power split like this before. It may very well seek out its other half."

"Her assailant," Pyrrha said.

"And that would not bode well for any of us," Ozpin said.

Pyrrha looked down. Artorias couldn't imagine what was going through her head. Well, he _could_ , but he doubted he was entirely accurate. He supposed she was… scared. Confused.

She looked back up, her jaw tight, and stepped forwards, resting a hand on the viewing pane. "If all of this is true, why keep it secret? If this girl is _so_ important… if we're truly on the brink of war… why not _tell_ everyone?"

"From what we understand, it used to be common knowledge," Glynda said.

"Excuse me?"

"You're familiar with _The Story of the Seasons_ , right?" Artorias asked. "Ozpin got you to do the whole 'recite a fairy tale for me' thing? It's not like that's a coincidence. It came from somewhere."

"Our group was founded to protect both mankind _and_ the Maidens. Those hungry for power hunted them with the hope of inheriting their strength," said Glynda.

"And, as you can imagine, the ones that succeeded weren't exactly the kind of people you'd want to have 'unimaginable power'," Qrow said.

"Hence the secrecy," Ozpin said. "The Maidens were hidden away, and eventually people forgot that they were anything more than myth and legend."

"The things we're telling you go against hundreds of years of human history and religion. Nobody would even _want_ to believe it. It would cause an uproar," Glynda said.

"It would cause panic. And we all know what that would bring clawing to our kingdom's walls. Which is why we would like to-"

"I'll do it," Pyrrha said, cutting Ozpin off. The tension in the air could be cut with a knife. "If you believe this will help humanity, then I will become your Fall Maiden." Ozpin and Qrow shared a glance. Artorias understood why; Amber was hardly lucid. How could they put Pyrrha in her thoughts? There was more to it than that. "That's what you wanted, isn't it?"

"It is, but I'm afraid it's not that simple," Ozpin explained. "Given Amber's condition, you won't be able to inherit her power naturally. However, General Ironwood has provided us a solution."

"See this machine? It's more than just life support." Qrow stepped forwards, patting the metal coffin with one hand. He sighed and took a long drink from his flask. "Dunno how it works. Important thing is that it can take an aura… and cram it into something else. Or, in your case…"

Artorias' eyes widened. "What?"

"That's wrong!" Pyrrha said.

"The feeling is mutual," Glynda said.

"You never said anything about this."

"I get it. We _all_ get it," Qrow said. "At best, it's morally dubious. At worst, it's downright sinister. We _know_."

"But we're out of options," Ozpin said. "I'm sorry that we can't assure you that the process won't… change you, Miss Nikos. Aura is a delicate thing. I advise you to take time to think on this matter; you have an important decision before you. But we will need your answer before the Vytal Festival is over."

/-/

Gilderoy Ornstein glanced at Penny. She was smiling brightly under the lights of the arena, waving at the cheering crowd. He couldn't bring himself to do the same. Gough had said that Artorias was awake, at least, but the usually cheerful giant had been in a rather sour mood.

Port's voice came over the speakers, clearing his throat. _"Before we begin, we have an important announcement from the head of security."_

" _This is General James Ironwood of Atlas. The Councils of Atlas and Vale have authorised the arrest of Aisling Sulyvahn."_ The crowd, which had quietened when Ironwood had begun speaking, began to murmur. Why announce it hear? Gilderoy supposed it was the best way to get word out, but at the risk of causing a panic? Sulyvahn must have really messed up to warrant this kind of attention. _"Any information as to his whereabouts should be brought to the Atlas Military immediately. Withholding any such information may lead to charges being brought against you. If Aisling Sulyvahn is sighted, do not approach him. He is armed and dangerous. Alert the authorities immediately. Thank you for your cooperation, and enjoy the show."_

The crowd grew louder as the speakers fell silent. From some sections of the audience there was yelling; Gilderoy supposed that it was from the religious denomination.

" _Please, please!"_ Oobleck said. _"Remain calm. This is, after all, the Vytal Festival!"_ There were a few faint cheers, and some of the murmuring died down, though there was still a sense of muted tension in the air. Gilderoy shifted uncomfortably, as did some of his fellow finalists; clearly they were uncomfortable being at the centre of it all.

Port cleared his throat again. " _Now, the moment you've all been waiting for: the one-on-one finals! Barney, why don't you explain the rules?"_

A few people left the audience, though the stands were still packed. Gilderoy breathed a sigh of relief as everyone went back to their wild cheering.

"So," he said to Penny next to him, tuning out Oobleck. "Who do you think will be fighting first?"

"I believe we all have an equal chance of fighting in the first one-on-one," Penny responded. "I personally hope I fight soon. I'd rather do it before I grow tired."

Gilderoy snorted. Could Penny even get tired? She always seemed too cheerful for that.

"I'd rather go later," Gilderoy said. "Wait until this Sulyvahn business is at the back of the audience's minds."

The selection wheels began to spin, landing on Mercury Black and Yang Xiao-Long.

"A shame," Penny said, as they and the other finalists departed the arena. "Hopefully I'll be next, though."

Yang and Mercury… they were reasonably similar in style, and both very flashy at that. Surely this would be a spectacle that would make everyone forget about Sulyvahn.

Gilderoy had no idea how right he was.

* * *

 **The Vault beneath Beacon, in canon, is massive, but only appears to house the aura transfer machine. I tried to spruce it up a little with this 'things they want to forget' idea. Vengarl, of course, keeps his keepsakes box in that secret room in the palace-turned-museum.**

 **I can imagine that in a world where aura exists (and in a facility where aura is commonplace), doctor are far more relaxed than in, say, a real-world hospital. My understanding of real-world hospitals also only really comes from TV, so I'm probably way off the mark anyway. But still... this is the Beacon infirmary, I guess.**

 **Ironwood announcing that Sulyvahn is public enemy number one-ish on live television is gonna make Ozpin a little angry at him (with good reason, I think), but it felt like something he'd do. Sulyvahn's a big threat, one who doesn't need to be kept a secret from the public, and Ironwood wants to maximise his chances of catching him.**

 **With _TFI_ heading into the Fall of Beacon stuff (much of which has been planned for far longer than anything I've written thus far), I want to speed up my update schedule so I can turn all my focus towards _Special Beings_ afterwards. So, the next chapter should be coming sooner than usual.**

 **Next chapter - December 19th. Or 18th. Not sure yet.**


	36. Chapter 35: Destiny

**To the guest reviewer last chapter...**

 **;)**

* * *

"Yang Xiao-Long, stand down!"

Mercury gritted his teeth, breathing deeply and haggardly in pain. Not that he was actually in any pain at all; it was all for show, and he'd disabled the pain receptors before the match. Actually, when Yang had blown his leg out from under him, he _had_ scraped his elbow on the ground. He guessed that hurt a bit.

"Gah! My leg… my leg!" Emerald came rushing across the arena, placing herself between Yang and Mercury and crouched down next to him.

"You alright?" she whispered.

He ignored her. Best not risk anyone catching on. Emerald took the hint and glanced up. "Please, somebody help him!" Out of the corner of his eye, Mercury could see the confusion written on Yang's it had to be her, really. She wasn't half-bad.

Oh well.

Two medics knelt next to him, a stretcher held between him, and he saw Emerald's eyes glaze over a little as she focused her semblance. "Can you do something?" she asked, her voice a little shaky.

He wondered what it was they saw when they looked at his leg. Hopefully it was _bad_ ; if it were something small, he'd be expected at the Beacon infirmary rather than a full-blown hospital. Perhaps they saw it twisted and broken. Perhaps they saw a deep wound that, without careful treatment, would require amputation.

Heh.

"We need to get this boy to a hospital. Grab a blanket."

Whatever it was they saw, it was graphic enough that they didn't want the audience to see it. That was good; Emerald would get a break. They carefully lifted him onto the stretcher, then covered his legs with a blanket and carried him away as quickly as they could without jolting him.

"You don't understand; he attacked me!" he heard on the way out.

 _Sorry, Blondie._

He was carried out into the halls of Amity colosseum, occasionally wincing for effect. Emerald jogged alongside him, lines of false worry creasing on her face.

"Here! We've got an ambulance ready to go."

He was loaded up onto the stolen ambulance, shooting a wink at Neo as he was brought on. It took Cinder another moment talking to the medics—the _real_ medics—before she joined them on the ambulance, and they took off. Mercury's pained expression finally broke into a wicked grin as Emerald slumped alongside him.

"Oh, Doc! Tell me: will I ever walk again?" Emerald smacked him on the arm. "Ow! What's your deal?"

"Ugh…" her eyes rolled back a little, and it seemed she might puke. "Headache. One mind I can handle, but two is a stretch."

"Well, you all performed marvellously, driver included," Cinder praised.

"…so. Do you think it worked?"

/-/

" _Lisa Lavender reporting. Coming on the heels of a polarising announcement from Atlesian General and Vytal Head of Security, James Ironwood, a finalist in the tournament was tragically wounded by his opponent after the end of their match."_

"Local Huntsmen are stretched thinner than ever before, James!"

" _The people deserve to know that Sulyvahn-"_

"Not now, of all times. The Vytal Festival promotes peace and harmony, but all you've created is an us-versus-them mentality with the Deep Faithful."

" _And you think that Mistral won't seek some form of retribution? Sulyvahn was one thing, but-"_

"I am not to blame in this, and neither is Miss Xiao-Long."

" _Then who_ is _at fault, Ozpin? This can't be swept under the rug. The council is already considering your removal. Someone has to take the fall for this, and if it's you-"_

"I know!" Ozpin snapped. It wasn't just his pride telling him that he couldn't leave this post. There was too much at stake. The relics, the Maidens…

James' scowl deepened. _"Move the girl to her dorm for the night. I'll send guards to ensure she stays there."_

"James-"

" _As Head of Security, I am_ ordering _you to do this, Ozpin. I will speak to her in the morning. Your cooperation will reflect in my report to the council."_ The General sighed and rubbed at his temples. _"I need to meet with the Council of Vale again. I suspect I have a long night ahead of me. For our friendship's sake, I'll keep them from issuing any statements—bold statements—before the end of the tournament. But I can't keep them in line forever."_ General Ironwood's face flickered from the screen and disappeared.

Ozpin clenched his teeth. "Something's coming," he said, "and I don't know how to stop it."

"You could call off the tournament," suggested Lucatiel. "Business as usual is one thing, but it's going too far now."

"It's too late," said the crowned man with ashen hair. "It's out of his hands. Isn't it?"

Ozpin nodded. At best, he could lobby the International Vytal Commission and the Council of Vale and have it done within… two days? Three days? Not at all, if he couldn't find enough allies. Besides, there were only three nights left anyway.

"You've weathered worse storms," said the man with ashen hair.

"This is Lisa Lavender with the Vale Weather Report," Lucatiel quipped. "We have no idea how bad the storm is going to be."

"Over to you, Ozpin," said the man. He and Lucatiel shared a glance, then they both began to laugh, one a hearty chuckle and the other a non-committal snort.

Ozpin almost chuckled himself before realising how ridiculous it would be. An aging man alone in his office laughing with the ghosts that kept him company. How odd indeed.

This was new, though. They'd been at odds with him before. They'd mocked him before. But they'd never invited him to join in. They were getting comfortable in his head. Or maybe he was getting comfortable with them. Wasn't that supposed to be a bad thing?

"You're both awfully mean today," he said.

Neither of them responded; they'd both disappeared.

 _Nevermind the company, then,_ he thought to himself.

/-/

"Ah! Too tight!" Mercury jolted away from Emerald, reaching for the screwdriver in his leg, fixing her with a baleful eye.

"Enough." That alone commanded his attention, and he angled himself to look at Cinder. "Our Mercury put on a wonderful show. He was quite brave," Cinder teased.

"These things aren't exactly cheap, you know." Neo drew up a chair next to him and tried to poke at the leg; he batted her hand away, and she poked her tongue out at him.

"So… what's next?" Emerald asked.

"We wait. At least until-" she was cut off by a loud clanking sound as the door to the warehouse began to open. "Ah. He's on time."

"Who?"

A cloaked figure strode out of the darkness, his steps heavy. There was a large duffel bag in his right hand, and a misshapen lump under his cloak indicated a weapon that was too large to be entirely hidden.

 _Or he could be a hunchback_ , Mercury thought. _A really tall hunchback._

The duffel bag was placed on the floor—though not softly enough to disguise the _clank_ of metal—and the man removed his cloak. There was a familiar sword on his back, and the dagger on his belt was stained with blood.

"Oh. Hey Raime."

Raime eyed Mercury strangely. "Who are you again?"

"Really? This is the recognition I get for my crippling, tragic-"

"-staged-" Emerald added.

"-injury?"

Raime raised an eyebrow, then his eyes widened in realisation. "You're Marcus Black's son."

"…is that a problem?"

"I was wondering why you seemed familiar."

"I mean, we did meet once."

"Your father's work was very impressive. His passing was unfortunate."

Mercury's eyes darted between Emerald and Cinder. "Yeah… about that-"

"That will do," Cinder said. "I called you here for a reason, Raime."

Raime's eyes lingered on Mercury for a second longer before he turned to Cinder. "Allow me a moment more to rest. I have had a stressful week."

"Diddums," Emerald drawled.

"This place is safe, no? Between Ozpin's servants and Sulyvahn, I feel I have earned some respite."

"Unless _you_ have compromised us, yes," Cinder said. "It is safe. Take your…" she seemed to taste the word in her mouth. "…respite." To Mercury's ears it came out as a mockery, one that Raime either didn't pick up on or didn't care enough to refute.

/-/

"Mercury didn't come through here for like, first aid or something, did he?" It was the morning after Yang and Mercury's fight, and Artorias was in the infirmary once more.

"Hmm? No." The doctor was focused more on removing Artorias' stitches than answering the question, but he doubted she'd forget something like that anyway. "That's probably one of the stupidest questions I've ever been asked, to be honest. Actually… second stupidest."

Well, she _was_ paying attention, as it turned out.

"I'll have to try harder," Artorias shrugged. She scowled as his arm shifted.

" _First aid._ Like I can't give full treatment. Just because I almost always have the patient's aura as a 'crutch' or whatever…" She shook her head. "Nevermind. Why? What kind of question was that? As if first aid wouldn't be administered in transit." She rolled her eyes. "They still have a first aid course at… did you go to Sunlight?"

"Flare, and yes, they do. Don't you have my medical records?"

"You think that has your entire resume on it?"

"I've seen it, and it _does_ say I attended Flare. Well, that my physical for Shade was conducted by the head honcho over at Flare. Same thing, right?"

The doctor raised an eyebrow. "I'm impressed. Most people don't have any idea what's on their medical records. You don't have any interest in medicine, do you? I'd be horrified."

"I had to fill it in for detention. That and every other students'," he admitted, muttering the last part.

"Disperse your aura for me, please."

Artorias blinked in surprise. He'd felt a little jolt of pain in his arm, but hadn't realised that he'd focused his aura to compensate. "Sorry."

"Everyone does it occasionally. Where was I?"

"I was asking stupid questions. What's the _most_ stupid, might I ask?"

"Ah, first aid. You know that usually first aid is administered where the incident occurs, right? Or, at the very least, on the way to a medical facility. Not _at_ one."

"…that makes sense." He didn't mention that he'd slept through most of the course.

"You don't even need to have taken a class to know that."

"…I mean, technically first aid is just the earliest aid provided to a casualty, right?"

"Semantics."

"But I'm _technically_ correct?"

She didn't respond, working in silence for a time. Artorias resisted the urge to fidget with impatience. He intended to seek out Yang as soon as he was done here. He needed to know what had happened.

"I hesitate to ask why you're asking for Mercury Black."

"Hesitate?" Artorias asked.

"I can only imagine it's for an incredibly stupid reason."

Artorias winced. "That's harsh."

"You've done a good job of being stupid so far."

"That's fair." He shrugged, rolling his eyes as she scowled at his left arm's movement. "He's a decent sort. I was just hoping he's doing alright."

"Last I heard, he was on his way back to Mistral to be with his family, so he can't be too poorly."

"Oh. Good."

After another minute or so, the doctor was finished. "Hey, so, maybe this is rude, but I _looked_ for a name and couldn't see one-"

"Doctor Yulva, at your service."

"Well, thanks, Doc. I'll see you around."

"I hope not, Mr Nym."

He exited the infirmary, and once he was out in the corridor glanced down at his arm. The scar that marred it was an ugly pink against his pale skin. He frowned, and idly wished his shirt had longer sleeves to cover it a little.

"Ah. You've recovered?" He glanced up to see Winter approaching. Heavy bags hung beneath her eyes, though she still managed to carry herself with her usual grace and decorum.

"Mm-hmm. Ciaran filled me in. Not like I could miss the city-wide manhunt. Were you looking for me?"

She nodded, then beckoned for him to follow her. "General Ironwood has been given jurisdiction over all crimes beyond petty theft in Vale. The Council wants Sulyvahn in custody—badly. As you can imagine-"

"The General's making good use of this authority?"

"And working everybody to the bone. I have case files stacking up on my desk, and-"

"Hold up. You're not drafting me into doing paperwork, are you?"

"That's exactly what I'm doing, yes."

Artorias halted; Winter continued for a few more paces before glancing back at him. "I promise I'll help out," he said, "but I need to talk to somebody first."

"Oh. Of course, go right ahead. But I'll hold you to that promise."

/-/

Yang couldn't really muster the will to move from her bed. She'd been sitting there alone ever since her team had departed to—as they'd put it—give her some space. She appreciated the sentiment, but she wasn't really sure it was what she wanted.

Well, she _knew_ what she wanted. For none of this to have ever happened.

"Hey there, firecracker."

She hadn't heard him come in. She considered that his presence should have startled her, but she couldn't really make the effort. "Hey, Qrow."

"Hm. So, why'd you do it?"

Blunt and to the point—Qrow's usual style, Yang thought. The less reasonable half of her felt accused. "You know why."

"All I know is that you attacked a helpless kid. So either you're lying, or you're crazy."

Her eyes narrowed, and she turned to glare at him. "I'm _not_ lying."

He shrugged nonchalantly. "Crazy. Got it." He kicked off from the wall he was leaning against to slowly pace around the room.

Yang sighed. "Who knows?" she asked. "Maybe I am."

"And here I thought your dark-haired friend was the emo one." _Blake._ Yang didn't really want to talk about her. After all they'd been through, she wouldn't give her the benefit of the doubt?

Yang knew Blake had a troubled past. That trust didn't come easily to her. Yang should have cared—normally _would_ have cared—but right now she was the one in need of, and as much as she wanted to, it was hard to look past Blake's early distrust.

It felt like a betrayal. It hurt.

"Sensitive subject?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

Qrow shrugged again. "Fair enough." He sighed. "Y'know how we dealt with dark-haired emos when I was in school?"

"No."

There was a knock at the door.

"Maybe that's an angry mob," Qrow suggested.

"Maybe."

"Yang?" came the muffled voice through the door. "It's Artorias. You alright?"

Qrow turned to her. "Want me to shoo him away?"

Yang considered it for a moment before shaking her head. He couldn't be worse at offering comfort than Qrow, surely. "Come in," she called.

"I'll get out of your hair," Qrow said. "Call me if you need me. I'll be close by." He sauntered past Artorias on the way out.

Yang sighed. "Come to make a joke out of this too?" That wasn't entirely fair of her. She usually enjoyed Artorias' sense of humour. But she wasn't feeling particularly humorous right now.

"I could if you wanted to."

"Don't."

"Sure thing." He sat down on the bed across from her, his hands in his pockets. "So," he said, "how're you feeling?"

"You believe me?"

He shrugged. "Well, yeah. You and Mercury got on like a house on fire." Yang winced at that. It was bad enough that she'd hurt an innocent. She'd also hurt a friend.

"I feel like hell."

"Figures." He sighed. "In the heat of battle, we all do stupid shit sometimes."

"We?"

"Well… I can't speak for everyone, but I do." He shrugged. "Justify your actions to yourself. It sucks, but there's no guarantee that anybody else—that Mercury—will forgive you, so forgiving yourself is the best you can do."

"I _know_ he attacked me-"

"Then why mope about it? You made a mistake. A costly mistake, but it could have been worse. Somebody could have died. And at least it _was_ a mistake." He fidgeted with the ring on his right hand. She supposed he was right, but it was a small comfort.

"Can I borrow your scroll? Mine's probably being monitored," she said.

"Hmm? Sure." He fished it out of his pocket and tossed it to her. "I'll, uh, give you some privacy?"

"Thanks, Art."

He ducked out into the hallway. As the door closed, she saw him poking the helmet of one of the Atlesian Knights stationed outside her room.

She opened up his scroll and went to his contacts list. _Mercury Black._

It didn't ring for long before somebody picked up, and though she'd tried a video call they'd only responded with audio.

" _Emerald here, this is Mercury's scroll."_

"Um… hi, Emerald. It's Yang."

There was a pregnant pause. _"I don't think he wants to-"_

"Could you tell him I'm sorry?"

Emerald sighed loudly. _"I will."_ She hung up a moment later.

It was something. It was a start to making amends.

/-/

Pyrrha was shaken softly from her thoughts by the rustling of trees in the wind, and of an autumn leaf floating down in front of her.

Of all things…

"Hey!"

She jolted upright, startled, and glanced upwards. Jaune stood there, looking down at her. "You disappeared for a while, there. You alr- oh, you want to be alone. Right. That makes sense." He glanced left and right sheepishly. "Uh, I'll just-"

"Stay," she said. "Please."

He sat down next to her, and for a while comfortable silence reigned. It was nice not to be alone, though it was true that she'd sought solitude. Jaune was an exception. She felt safe.

"I'm only at Beacon because of you," he said at last. She turned to face him, her eyes wide. "When I told my parents I was going to Beacon, they told me not to worry if I ended up having to move back home. And I almost did, you know. After Cardin. But… you extended a hand. Even knowing that I have no right to be here, _you_ gave me a chance." He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I'm just trying to say that… you've always been there, even when I didn't deserve it. And I can tell that there's something on your mind, so… I don't know, how can I help?"

Pyrrha took a risk.

She sidled closer and laid her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes. She felt at home here. He smelled like rain. It was soothing to her.

She felt him shift of course—perhaps in surprise, or fear, or confusion—but, after a moment, he relaxed and laid his hand atop hers. She didn't let it get her hopes up. He hadn't brought up her little declaration from the dance since the Breach. But she appreciated the gesture, the desire to comfort a friend.

"I don't want this to end," she murmured.

He tensed. "What? The Vytal Festival?" He dodged the subject, as was his wont. But yes. She didn't want that to end. She didn't want to have to decide between her destiny and her friends. Between her destiny and _Jaune._

But if she didn't take Ozpin's offer, they'd ask another. Could she live with herself if she shifted that burden onto somebody else?

"Jaune," she said, pushing herself upright once more, "do you believe in destiny?"

He shrugged. "I dunno. I guess that depends on how you view it."

"When I think of destiny, I don't think of a predetermined fate you can't escape, but rather some sort of final goal. Something you work towards your entire life."

"Okay. Yeah. I can see that, sure."

"Well, what would you do if something came along that you never expected. Something that had the potential to stand between you and your destiny."

"Like what?"

"Or what if you could suddenly fulfil your destiny in an instant, but at the cost of who you were?"

Jaune pursed his lips. "Pyrrha, you're not making any sense."

"None of it makes sense!" She lurched to her feet, taking a few steps forward. She didn't turn around; she wanted to hide. She didn't want him to see how distraught she was. He'd probably notice anyway. "This isn't how things were supposed to happen."

"I'm sorry- please, I'm just trying to understand what's wrong."

She breathed deeply. "I've always felt as though I was destined to become a Huntress—to protect the world. And it's become increasingly clear to me that my feelings were right. But I don't know if I can do it."

Jaune was silent for a moment. "I don't know about destiny," he said. "I just wanted to be a hero. Like my great-great-grandfather. That's my goal, I guess. Or it was." He rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. "I believe in you, though. If you really believe that it's your destiny to save the world, you can't let anything stand in your way."

Pyrrha supposed it should have strengthened her resolve. But all she felt was weak. She felt as though her legs were about to give out from under her.

"Pyrrha?"

"Stop," she whispered. This wasn't what she wanted to hear. It was the truth, but the truth hurt.

"Did I say something wrong?"

"Stop!" in a burst of anger, and fear, and confusion, her semblance blasted away everything it could. There was a loud _clank_ , and it took her a moment to realise that she'd thrown Jaune against the wall. "Jaune!" She released him, her hands shaking. "I'm… I'm sorry."

She turned and fled.

/-/

Artorias browsed through a police report detailing a homicide at the port of Vale. The victim was identified as Gerold Smith, a ticket-puncher for the ferry between Patch and Vale. His throat had been slit, and he'd been hidden in a dumpster for at least ten hours before somebody found him.

"And these are _all_ from the past two days?" Artorias asked, eyeing the pile of reports on Winter's desk.

"Mm-hmm."

Well. Crime was worse in Vale than he thought.

" _Alright, it's now time to begin the randomisation process for our next fight!"_ he heard from his scroll. He had it open on the desk, playing the broadcast from the tournament, and he took a quick break from the report to watch.

Penny's name came up first.

Then Gilderoy's.

"This ought to be interesting," he said.

"Don't get distracted," Winter said. He rolled his eyes and went back to reading the report. Forensics had tried to identify the murder weapon by the wounds; their mock-up appeared suspiciously similar to his own dagger, lost to the Fume Knight.

A red glow illuminated the page. "What the…" he glanced upwards again; it was coming from Winter's terminal, now displaying a red screen with a black chess piece.

Winter frowned and began to type, though nothing seemed to happen. After a few seconds, the screen faded, and it instead showed feed from a camera pointed at the sky. The faint sounds of cars could be heard in the background. Winter kept typing, but it seemed she couldn't control it.

The camera turned, and a man's face came into view, unnaturally pasty and pale, with skin stretched tightly across his skull.

" _This is Raime Marabel,"_ said the man. _"Please respond."_

Winter jolted upright and scrambled for her scroll. "Artorias Nym here," he said, knowing that the microphone would pick him up. "How did you get-"

Winter pointed to her scroll. _Suspects (Fume Knight): Alexander Throne. Nostrum Throne. Raime Marabel._

"Oh shit."

" _A fair response,"_ said the Fume Knight. _"Never mind the how of it. You're going to want to see this."_

"Where are you?" Winter asked.

The Fume Knight did not respond. He shifted a little, and the hilt of his sword could be seen protruding into the frame. He put his helmet on, then grabbed the camera and turned it. It jerked a little, then his arms could be seen at the edges of the frame—he must have fixed it to the front of his breastplate.

He was in some non-descript alleyway. Artorias certainly didn't recognise it. The Fume Knight set off towards a wider street, then turned left. Ahead of him was the Church of Many Faiths.

"Let's go," Winter said. She grabbed her sabre and rushed for the door, but Artorias was still watching the screen.

Raime burst through the doors. _"Sulyvahn!"_ he roared, his voice echoing throughout the church. The great organ at loomed over the rows of pews. The Deep Faithful holding vigil for the Pontiff cried out in fright, cowering before the Fume Knight as he marched up the aisle. _"I know you are here, Sulyvahn!"_

Winter bit her lip. "Stay here," she said. "Watch the feed and alert me if he moves."

"This is clearly a trap. You need backup."

"I'll call the General. If Sulyvahn really is there, I don't want you involved."

Artorias nodded, and she set off into the corridor, dialling a number into her scroll.

/-/

"I know you are here, Sulyvahn!"

Raime strode up the aisle, scowling every time the scroll mounted on his breastplate clanked against it. He understood the _point_ of Cinder's plan. He just didn't entirely agree with the execution.

Civilians scattered before him. He trailed his hand against the pews, waiting for a jolt in his aura. Something, _anything_ to indicate the existence of a hidden switch. Nothing happened. He scowled beneath his helmet. Cinder's contact had better not be lying…

"Please, we've done nothing wrong," somebody whimpered. He ignored them.

He came to the altar at the front of the church, and rested his hand against it. Again, there was nothing. "Sulyvahn!" he shouted again. "You!" He pointed to a civilian. "Is there a cellar? A basement? A-"

"Stop, Raime."

Raime whirled around. On the little balcony that housed the organ's keyboard stood Sulyvahn, sword in hand. He reached behind him and played four notes of a melody; faintly, Raime heard the sound of stone grinding against stone somewhere up in the choir stalls. "How did you find me?" Sulyvan asked.

Raime smiled. "Cinder sends her regards." He tore the scroll from his breastplate and threw it against the ground, stomping on it. His job was done.

And now all he needed was for Cinder to deliver on her promise and take control of the airship.

/-/

 _"Alright, it_ _'s now time to begin the randomisation process for our next fight!_ _"_

"Could you suppress your aura for me?" Doctor Polendina asked.

Lautrec obliged, rolling his eyes. The doctor grabbed a scalpel and pushed gently on the subject's palm, observing as the second purple soul tried to reach out and prevent the skin from slicing open.

 _"It looks like our first contender is_ _… Penny Polendina from Atlas!_ _"_

Doctor Polendina looked up at the screen in surprise. Penny… "We're done for the evening," he said, setting the scalpel down. Lautrec's aura surged back in to heal the cut. He pushed a button at his desk, and the door slid open. "Return Lautrec to his cell," he called.

/-/

Ruby Rose entered the hallways of Amity. Emerald was in Mistral, right? That's what she'd heard, anyway. The entire team had gone home after Mercury's injury.

" _Alright, it's now time to begin the randomisation process for our next fight!"_

She kept walking. There was something strange going on, that much was for sure. First Coco, now Yang, and Emerald wasn't where she was supposed to be.

Something was very, _very_ odd.

She heard footsteps ahead of her. Mercury Black stepped into the hallway and blocked her path. His legs seemed perfectly functional.

"Mercury?"

" _It looks like our first contender is… Penny Polendina from Atlas!"_

Mercury was silent.

"What are you doing?"

" _And her opponent will be… Gilderoy Ornstein from Shade!"_

Mercury looked at her, a smirk on his face, like that was supposed to mean something… "No!"

"Ooh, electricity and a robot?" He winced. "Sounds like a blown fuse to me."

/-/

The other finalists departed from the arena, and the central platform began to raise. Penny offered Gilderoy a bright smile. "I hope this doesn't put a damper on our friendship, friend Gilderoy."

He grinned back. "Good luck," he said.

A series of swords emerged from her backpack, floating behind her. Gilderoy drew his bident. _Blessed was Ornstein…_

When Port roared begin and the crowd began to cheer, Gilderoy charged, golden lightning sparking in his wake. Penny met him halfway. Her blades formed a fan before her, blocking his initial strike, and yet more swords struck from the sides, forcing him to duck and parry and dodge and block. He'd never realised just how _fast_ she was. With so many swords, it was almost like fighting a dozen foes at once.

He murmured his mantra under his breath over and over again, pushing his semblance to his limit. The world blurred around him as he leapt almost parallel to the ground to dodge a fan of blades, rolling mid-air into a slightly off-balance landing. It afforded him a brief opening, and he capitalised, stumbling through a hole in her guard to strike. Having finally closed to melee range, he unleashed a rapid flurry of stabs. His mantra changed: _the king braved the horde alone._

The runes in his coat blazed with light. Some strikes were blocked by the Penny's weapons. Some made it through. He certainly _felt_ he got the better of the exchange, though he didn't dare check their aura levels, even as Penny leapt away.

It was good he didn't too, for she was charging once more, this time leaping skywards in a burst of green energy. "The thunder rolled like waves on black seas." Explosive force gathered in his legs, and he leapt up to meet her mid-air. She swatted away his bident with her swords, but a shotgun blast sent him flying past her, dragging the edge of his weapon across her legs. His eyes widened, and he twisted as he fell back to the ground so that the incoming swords only sliced his shoulders and neck rather than his face.

His landing was rough, and he grunted in pain as he rolled to his feet. By the time he was upright, Penny's swords were upon him again, even as she stood back at a safe distance.

 _Blessed was Ornstein, swiftest of knights. Lockhart's child lit the night with song. Blessed was Ornstein…_

He backed away, leaping and dancing between the storm of swords. What he couldn't dodge, he swatted away with his bident, and when he couldn't do that even, he weathered the blow. With every step, lightning sparked from his feet. But he could feel himself tiring already, both from the physical demand and the tax his semblance took on his aura, yet Penny was showing no signs of weariness. He needed to end the fight soon.

His feet found purchase on one of her swords. Lightning sparked up the string connecting it to her backpack, causing her to flinch; he threw himself high in the air, raising his bident over his head like a hammer. He brought it crashing down on a circle of blades, and again lightning crackled along them. It still was not enough to break through her guard, but it forced her onto her back foot, retreating across the arena as he pursued her.

Penny flipped backwards onto her hands then pushed off, flying backwards towards the arena's edge. A blade spun, protecting her from a shotgun blast, and when she landed they all backed away to float behind her. Green energy crackled at their points, and blasts of plasma came screaming across the arena towards him. He spun his bident before him, catching the green bolts, then dove to the side to avoid the fan of blades that came crashing down from above.

 _Thunder like black waves_ was as far as he got before seeing an opportunity. A blast of gravity dust propelled him forwards, and he flipped his bident around before he reached Penny to stab at her midriff. Green aura sparked angrily to block the blow, and Penny was thrown backwards off the arena's edge.

 _It's over._

Penny came flying back into view, jets of green energy spurting from her backpack. She leapt once more into the air, then angled herself into a rocket-powered kick; Gilderoy dodged at the very last second, shuddering as she left a great dent in the arena floor. He sliced at her leg, caught a blade on his pauldron, ate another to his torso, then, with a pained grunt, flipped his bident around and fired off another grav-dust round, sending the butt of the weapon flying into Penny's chin. She was blown backwards, landing some ten metres away.

Gilderoy looked down and breathed deeply. He was already exhausted. All he could hear was the blood pounding in his head.

He looked up.

There was a wall of swords arrayed behind Penny. A vicious grin marked her face as more and more them floated up from her backpack.

And then they came for him.

"Blessed was Ornstein, swiftest of knights," he whispered, feeling the dust spark against his skin once more.

There! An opening! A path to take, to strike, to _win._

His voice picked up in volume as he charged, and it felt as though it would carry to the heavens themselves. "The knight slew thirty 'ere he crossed the bridge!"

The bident's blades sparked and crackled violently with power. He'd never pushed his semblance this far. The runes on his coat were blinding, even to him.

"The executioner cried out to his victim, I am yours!"

He spun, narrowly dodging a blade. His right arm was cocked back, gripping the haft of the bident. The other held his weapon by the crossguard.

He thrust forwards and upwards, driving the bident towards Penny's chest.

No aura halted the blow.

* * *

 **I didn't expect to enjoy writing Doctor Yulva as much as I did. It made for a nice calm-before-the-storm moment, I think. Yulva is only referenced in one item in the first Dark Souls. She's one of the sealers of New Londo, but her corpse is found in Blighttown.**

 **Qrow and Yang's scene is supposed to be a reminder that Raven hasn't given Yang her one free save yet. When's it coming? Who knows? (I know)**

 **The idea for Raime's part in Cinder's plan sounded better in my head than it's (so far) turning out in execution. The threeway fight of Sulyvahn v Raime v Winter + backup is going to be fun, though.**

 **Next chapter - December 22nd.**

 **There's _so_ much that I'm excited for next chapter. I'm so excited that it might even come a few days early. Don't hold me to that, though.**


	37. Chapter 36: The Old Kings

"Penny's got this," Flynt said. Solaire glanced over, reaching out a hand to steady Hawkwood as he was almost thrown to the Bullhead floor. "He's faster than he looks, but Penny's got it in the bag."

They'd all been sitting in the stands at Amity when General Ironwood had called them over. They had a mission, apparently. It was a rather odd team—not quite of four, though he supposed they _were_ joining a Specialist to round out the number.

They were all honoured to accept, of course (or at least Solaire was—he imagined Hawkwood was rather unamused with it all, as he was with everything, and he didn't know Flynt well enough to judge), and had boarded the Bullhead immediately. There was no time to wait around, the General had said. He'd briefed them via scroll on the way.

He supposed Flynt felt a little out of place without his team. But no matter. They'd been chosen because they had the General's trust. They would do well.

"Approaching the drop zone," the pilot called. The side-door began to raise open.

"Drop zone?" Hawkwood asked.

"No room to land. No time to walk." Flynt glanced one more time at his scroll before pocketing it. "Let's get this show on the road."

As it turned out, there was no time to stop either; the Bullhead hardly slowed down as it approached the Church of Many Faiths. The building was surrounded on all sides by Atlesian soldiers and knights, their weapons trained on the door, the windows, the upper balconies. Some stood off to the side, comforting civilians who must have fled the building. Even from the sky, the sounds of combat could be dimly heard within.

They all jumped; Flynt went for the church wall, sliding down for a few seconds to slow his fall a little before pushing off into a roll as he hit the ground. Hawkwood and Solaire both dropped like rocks, focusing their auras beneath them to soften the landing somewhat.

"No style," Flynt criticised.

"Solaire," someone greeted. Solaire looked up to see Winter Schnee striding towards them.

"Ma'am."

"Hello to you too," Hawkwood drawled. Flynt eyed the Specialist strangely, then shrugged.

"You're aware-"

"The General briefed us on the way here," Flynt said, cutting her off. "Two perps. One's the Councilman. The other's classified."

"Good." She drew her sabre and moved closer to the door. "Don't rely too heavily on semblances. I don't know how, but Sulyvahn can suppress them."

That wouldn't be a problem for Solaire—he didn't know his semblance. But Hawkwood and Flynt nodded in acknowledgement. "Mr Cole, you and I will subdue him. Solaire, you and your partner will keep Raime at bay while we do so."

"I have a name," Hawkwood grumbled.

"Raime?" Solaire asked.

"You'll see."

Winter pushed the doors open. Solaire immediately deduced that Winter was, in fact, right—he did see who she meant. A towering, imposing figure in black armour wielding a massive sword duelled the Pontiff near the altar. As they entered, his huge blade threw Sulyvahn away, sending him crashing through three rows of pews.

Solaire raised his right hand, golden lightning expanding from the handkerchief clutched in his fist, and hurled it at Raime, who caught it on the flat of his blade. Hawkwood and Winter charged up the aisle, weapons ready, while Flynt blasted a low note through his trumpet to blow the pews towards Sulyvahn to try and crush him.

The Pontiff snarled. "I don't have time for you," he said.

The room began to darken. Solaire's heart beat faster in his chest.

Then he heard the footsteps.

/-/

Doctor Polendina gripped the arm of his chair tightly, his gaze focused on his daughter where she lay on Amity's floor.

What was left of her.

He wanted to look away, but could not. His eyes roamed the screen, taking in every detail. Her skin still sparked with golden electricity, and, illuminated by the heated metal beneath, glowed a dull red. Her eyes had been blown from their sockets, revealing a tangle of red-hot wires that had been sundered by the explosive force—though one cable had remained intact, leaving her left eye dangling dully from her metal skull. Her hair stood on end, smoking at the tips, and her bow had fallen off, the charred pink fabric floating to the ground.

"Doctor Polendina!"

And the boy who'd killed her, standing over her, his face blank.

Doctor Polendina's fist clenched.

Someone shook his shoulder. "There's an intruder. We have to go, _now_!"

"Penny…"

As he was pulled away, the screen flickered to show a black chesspiece on red.

/-/

"This is not a tragedy. This was not an accident. This is what happens when you hand over your trust, your safety, your _children_ to men who claim to be our guardians but are, in reality, nothing more than men." Cinder knew that Ozpin was watching. She could see him, on the feed from the cameras Emerald had placed on Sulyvahn's behalf, his eyebrows drawn together, a frown on his face.

"Our academies' headmasters wield more power than most armies, and one was audacious enough to control both. They cling to this power in the name of peace, and yet what do we have here? One nation's attempt at a synthetic army mercilessly torn apart by another star pupil. What need would Atlas have for soldiers disguised as an innocent little girl? I don't think the Grimm can tell the difference."

But she could hear them. A rumbling of claws and talons and growling mouths coming from the Emerald Forest; the faint whistling of wind through the feathers of Nevermores and Griffons amplified a thousand times over from the east; the humming of the White Fang's Bullheads…

It was already beginning.

"And what, I ask you, are Beacon and Shade teaching their students? First a dismemberment and now this? Huntsmen and Huntresses should carry themselves with honour and, above all, mercy. I have witnessed neither. What I have witnessed is a clear message: that Vacuo will not stand to have her lands occupied by a tyrannical dictator. That Vale will not suffer to be humiliated on her own soil. I see trenches drawn in the sand, dug up from a war that this very festival wishes to forget."

Ozpin turned to speak to somebody whom Cinder could not see.

"Honestly? I don't know if they are right or wrong to do so. But I know that the existence of peace is fragile, and the leaders of our kingdoms conduct their business with iron gloves. As someone who hails from Mistral, I can assure you… the situation there is equally undesirable. Our kingdoms are at the brink of war, yet we, the citizens, are left in the dark. So I ask you, when the first shots are fired… who do you think you can trust?"

With a tap, the broadcast shut off. She glanced up at the top of Beacon tower briefly, then turned to Mercury and Emerald. "Stay close. Sulyvahn's pet will search for us." They nodded in return, and Mercury pulled his scroll from his pocket, pointing it towards the Emerald Forest to film. Once the carnage began in earnest, it would transmit to the CCT, and from there all across Remnant. Everyone would know the horror of the Fall of Beacon.

But there was still one more thing to do.

Sulyvahn would be distracted for the time being, if Raime did his part. He wouldn't notice a slight change…

She substituted the footage transmitting to his scroll of Ozpin's office with a loop of the office—but empty.

/-/

Raime slashed at the red-cloaked man's arm with his smaller blade, then cut towards his legs with the larger one. The boy staggered and fell to the ground, and with a kick Raime sent him rolling away through the pews. He snarled as a golden lightning bolt cut through the darkness to disperse across his aura, then charged towards its source shoulder-first, hoping to pin the boy who'd thrown it.

It didn't surprise him that he missed the boy with the sun on his shield, though at the end of the day it didn't matter. It was time for him to leave. He had other duties to attend to. His charge took him through the doors of the church. The black fog that emitted from Sulyvahn's beast billowed outwards with him, concealing the Atlesians who panicked, their weapons priming. Bolts of blue energy passed by him, some hitting him, though most hardly damaged his armour, let alone his aura. But if the barrage kept up, he'd be in trouble.

His thoughts turned to darkness. He thought of Halgot Bridge, where he'd seen the Hound of Forossa cut down thirty men alone, then turn to face him. He thought of Velstadt and Vendrick, his comrade and his king, who had turned on him when he dared to speak the truth. He thought of Ozpin and the grand deception that Salem had revealed to him. He let the emotions wash over him. Fear. Anger. Despair.

Like a moth to flame the Nevermore came for him, flying in from the east. That Ironwood's ship had not shot it from the sky was sign enough that Cinder's underling had done her job.

He grabbed its leg as it dived towards him, and a Grimm beetle emerged from his glove, spitting mucus onto the Nevermore's leg. _To the flagship,_ he directed.

/-/

"Flynt, clear this fog!" Hawkwood said, rising to his feet. He could see flashes of flame in the darkness, but nothing more. The clash of steel on steel told him that the Specialist was holding her own, at least.

Flynt nodded and stepped sideways, mirages of himself sliding outwards, their trumpets raised. A minor chord sent currents of air through the fog and, after a few seconds, it began to clear somewhat.

The battle was becoming clearer. The spindly thing that had come to Sulyvahn's aid had the Specialist pinned beneath the church organ, using its superior height and longer arms to overpower her. Sulyvahn himself was tearing up the aisle towards them, a malicious smile on his face.

Flynt's semblance flickered and wavered, but did not disappear.

Solaire moved to help Winter while Hawkwood moved to intercept Sulyvahn. The Pontiff, it seemed, had no interest being slowed down, suffering a blow to the shoulder and a slice across his gut that sparked his violet aura. He powered through regardless, reaching out a hand to Flynt.

The moment they touched, Flynt let out a cry of pain and collapsed. Hawkwood knew that usually his clones would merge back into him, but here they simply disappeared in a puff of black smoke. He fell to the ground, and Sulyvahn continued on out the doors, raising his sword to strike Raime. But before he could, the man disappeared, carried away by a giant Nevermore.

"Dancer!" Sulyvahn whirled around, his face contorted in an ugly snarl. Hawkwood stood over Flynt, weapon raised to block should the man try to strike again. "It's time to leave."

"Don't let it escape!" he heard Winter yell. Hawkwood didn't let himself get distracted, advancing slowly on Sulyvahn. The soldiers surrounding the Pontiff opened fire, but the shots bounced from the man's aura.

A swirling vortex opened next to Sulyvahn, and the thing that Winter and Solaire had been fighting dragged itself through it, crying in pain. The vortex disappeared and, slicing its finger through the air, another opened. Realising what was happening, Hawkwood charged.

He drew blood from the Dancer's leg before they both disappeared.

Winter stormed out of the church, her eyes narrowed and her brow furrowed. "The General will not be…" she trailed off, seeing the faces of the soldiers around her. A heavy sense of dread settled over them all. "What happened?" She glanced upwards and east, where a Nevermore could be seen flying away—and a horde of Griffons approached.

One of the soldiers pulled out his scroll.

"Hawkwood!" Solaire called. "Over here!" Hawkwood turned; his leader was crouched down next to Flynt, who writhed on the ground, clutching his head.

He approached, sheathing his sword, and laid his hand on Flynt's brow. He began channelling his semblance, sharing his aura with the man, and after a few seconds Flynt fell still, though he did not wake.

"What's wrong with him?"

Hawkwood shrugged. He'd felt a profound _wrongness_ , but he couldn't put his finger on it. "I don't know."

Somewhere outside, there was an explosion that shook the ground. He glanced up, and felt his jaw drop.

The flagship was firing on the other Atlesian ships.

/-/

" _What's happening up there?"_

Artorias tore through the halls of Beacon, scroll in hand. On the screen, Winter's face was creased with concern.

"Did you know that Penny was a robot?"

" _What?"_

"Did you know?"

She sighed. _"Yes."_ Artorias' eyes hardened. Winter had known. That meant that _Ironwood_ had known… and he'd let Penny fight anyway. He slowed down a little, his fist clenching.

"I'm heading for the Beacon docks. The Fang are releasing Grimm into the school."

" _The Fang is here too? Nevermind. Listen to me: you need to get to the flagship. I can't reach the General. Someone's commandeered it."_

 _And Lautrec is there_ , Artorias realised. The Fume Knight's target. _Raime's_ target.

He changed course, heading for the hall where they'd held combat classes. The rocket lockers were there. "What about you?"

" _We'll work to establish a safe- damn!"_ Artorias raised an eyebrow. He didn't hear her swear often—in fact, he couldn't recall ever hearing so much as a 'heck'. In the background he could hear gunfire. _"Be careful of the knights!"_ she said. _"I've got to go."_

/-/

Smough's fists pounded on the barrier separating the audience from the arena. Up above, a giant Nevermore did much the same, though with a beak instead of with its hands.

"Ciaran, go around!" Gough ordered; she nodded and dashed off. Gil hadn't moved throughout the entire speech, his eyes fixed on Penny.

"Gil!" Smough roared.

"Gil, move!"

Either Gilderoy couldn't hear them, or he wasn't listening. He took a shaky step closer to Penny. Gough glanced up at the scoreboard in panic. Gilderoy's aura was barely breaking twenty percent, and the Nevermore was growing impatient, its tapping getting more and more urgent.

They weren't alone in their urging. Elsewhere in the arena, other teams were yelling at Gilderoy, trying to force their way into the arena's centre even as the civilian crowd scattered in panic.

The forcefield gave out. The Nevermore began its dive, even as Smough vaulted over the low railing.

"Move!" he roared again.

Gilderoy did not move.

The Nevermore clawed at Gilderoy as it landed, sending his aura sparking, and its wings buffeted both him and Smough away. With a snarl, Gough followed, leaping over the railing to the arena floor.

"Gil!"

The Nevermore cawed once, then lunged. A red streak crossed the arena, rose petals streaming in its wake. The streak became Ruby, weaponless—and so she reached for Penny's weapon-

Lightning streaked up the wire from Penny's body into her sword, slamming into Ruby with enough force to send her rolling backwards across the arena, her aura diminished but intact-

The Nevermore's beak broke through Gilderoy's aura, tearing open his gut. It cawed again triumphantly, then swiped again, its wing-claw ripping through Gilderoy's leg-

Smough dove to protect Gilderoy from its next strike with his own body, his brimstone aura crackling.

Gough roared as he reached the Nevermore. He ducked its wing and slammed into its right leg, using all his massive strength to pin it down and break it. Its leg bent at an unnatural angle, Nevermore screamed in pain and kicked him away, but when it tried to take flight and flee, something slammed into it from above.

Rocket-lockers rained from the sky, each one slamming into the Nevermore with enough force to push it back to the ground as it tried to rise. Eventually, it fell still, and the students rushed to collect their weapons.

"You," Smough growled as he rose to his feet, pointing to Nora. "Let me borrow that."

"Uh…"

"I need it."

Nora held Magnhildr as a mother might a child. "Who is this guy?" she asked.

Smough's growl turned into a snarl. He stepped towards the Nevermore, clenching both hands into fists, and brought them both down on the beast's beak. Its entire body shuddered from the blow, and if it weren't for his aura he would have broken his hands.

"Stay with me!"

Gough's attention turned from his brother to Ciaran and Ruby, who knelt next to Gilderoy. It was a sorry sight. Though Ciaran held a scrap of Penny's shirt to the wound in his gut, the cloth was already soaked with blood, and his legs were broken and mangled likely beyond repair. Still, he was clearly conscious, though possibly not lucid. Every breath was ragged.

"I'll see if I can find a stretcher," Sun said, dashing away, his team in tow.

"Smough, that's enough," Gough said.

Smough didn't hear him. By now, the Nevermore's beak had cracked, the top part falling away to reveal a bloodstained tongue amongst shards of white bone.

"That's enough!"

Ren approached the Nevermore's head. It was still alive, and though it could hardly move it glared daggers at him. He shot at its glowing red eye. Its struggling ceased, and the Nevermore began to fade away into black smoke. Smough watched, breathing heavily.

Sage and Scarlet returned, carrying a stretcher between them. Ruby helped them get Gilderoy onto it. Right as he was lifted up, his hand spasmed, his fingers grasping around Ruby's arm.

"Penny?"

She shook her head.

His hand went slack.

Sun walked up behind Smough, half-carrying half-dragging a golden hammer behind him. "I found this in the coat-room."

Smough grabbed his hammer. "I am going to find them," he said. "Everyone responsible for this. I will _break_ them."

Up above, around the edge of the colosseum, Griffons were beginning to gather. Gough could only imagine that they were drawn to Smough. His entire body radiated anger and sorrow. Gough pulled his scroll from his pocket and summoned his locker. He'd need his weapon.

"Get him out of here," Ruby said, whirling on Sage and Scarlet. "Ciaran, go with them. Watch their backs." The three of them made for the exit, going as quickly as they could without bumping Gilderoy. "Gough, I'll need your scroll."

He finished stringing his bow before tossing it to her, and a moment later another locker came crashing down, opening up to reveal Crescent Rose. Ruby reached for it, but a Griffon came swooping down on top of it, screeching loudly.

Gough drew back his bow, arrow already nocked. At his side, he saw other weapons being aimed; Pyrrha's spear morphed to a rifle. Neptune raised his gun. Coco's handbag began to unfold.

But it was a deeper gunshot rang out across the arena, blasting the Griffon away, and it was Peter Port stepped forwards, Doctor Oobleck at his side. "Students," he said. "I think it would be best for you to leave."

Smough's grip on his hammer tightened.

"But we can-"

"Miss Rose," Oobleck said, cutting the girl off. "This day will surely go in Remnant's history. I'd prefer it if my students could live to tell of it."

"Fuck that," Smough muttered.

"They're mindless. They're Grimm. They're not worth it," Gough said.

Ruby nodded and grabbed Crescent Rose. "Let's go," she said.

Gough had to drag Smough a few steps before he followed.

When they reached Amity's docks, it was clear that there was a full-scale evacuation in process. While there were still a few Grimm being shepherded into corners by Atlesian soldiers, the area was, for the most part, clear. Following Ruby's lead, the students rushed towards General Ironwood, who was about to board a gunship. He couldn't see Ciaran, Gil, Sage or Scarlet anyway, and hoped that they were already on their way to a hospital.

"What's going on?"

His gaze panned over them all. "Grimm are crawling all over the city. The White Fang has invaded Beacon, and to make matters worse some vagabond has seized one of my ships. Until we regain command, the skies are out of our control. So I'm-"

He paused, raised his gun, and fired a single shot over their heads. Gough turned, startled, to see the Creep he'd shot keel over and begin to disperse in black smoke.

"-going to take it back," Ironwood finished. He turned and began to ascend the boarding ramp.

"What should we do?" Jaune asked.

"You have two choices: defend your kingdom and your school… or save yourselves. No one will fault you if you leave. Let's move out!" The gunship's ramp began to close, and Ironwood disappeared into it, taking off moments later towards the flagship.

"I'm going to Beacon," Smough growled.

Nobody disagreed.

They boarded a transport, still bedecked in the colourful red livery of the festival. It seemed a little more morbid now. They flew in silence for a time. Ruby, Jaune, and Sun stood stoically at the front of the ship, speaking in hushed voices. Others were checking their weapons. Pyrrha sat alone in the corner, her knees huddled to her chest.

"He's going to be alright," Gough said. Smough didn't respond.

Everyone was shaken from their thoughts by an explosion that rocked the ship. Their attention turned to the viewing window at the front of the ship; Ironwood's dropship had blown up, and was spiralling down into the city.

Ruby didn't hesitate. She turned and marched towards the back of the ship. Gough knew immediately what she was doing; if Ironwood couldn't take back the flagship, somebody had to.

"Ruby!" he called. He drew his bow and nocked a grav-dust arrow. "Be careful," he said.

/-/

"Really? Him?" Roman Torchwick reclined in the captain's chair, putting his feet up on the console. Neo had been kind enough to bring him a pack of fresh cigars, a luxury he'd been missing ever since his incarceration, and he gestured vaguely towards Lautrec with one. "Sounds like you're the talk of the town." First Atlas had taken an interest in him, and now this Raime fellow.

Lautrec struggled against his cuffs. Neo had been sure to keep him restrained. "You don't know who's coming for me," he growled. "He won't show you mercy."

Roman raised an eyebrow to Neo. "Thought you were working with the guy." She nodded.

"And he's on good terms with Cinder dearest?"

Neo made a so-so gesture.

Roman took a puff on his cigar and turned to face Lautrec. "Well," he said, "I like my odds with him."

The door to the bridge slid open, and in walked a man in black armour, a massive sword in his hand.

He was suitably menacing, Roman supposed, but from what he could tell from Neo he was hardly more dangerous than Cinder. Actually, strike that—Cinder pushed the man around. "Good evening," he greeted. "I _would_ offer you a cigar, but I'm rather covetous of them right now."

"I'm only here for the prisoner," Raime said.

"Right here," Roman responded, again gesturing at Lautrec. "Now, if that will be all-"

There was a _thud_ on the deck of the ship.

Roman sighed. "Go see what that is," he said, moving to sit upright.

Neo nodded.

/-/

Ozpin's mouth was set in a thin line. The screens on his desk showed visions of death and destruction. Civilians fled before the Grimm, only to be run down. Atlesian soldiers were forced backwards, their weapons ineffective against the hordes. He wasn't sure if the screaming he could hear came from the speakers in his desk or from the city, so very far away.

It was time to act.

He pushed himself upright and made for the elevator, grabbing his cane as he went.

Halfway across the room, the world shook, and he stumbled. His eyes flickered to the window, to Mountain Glenn.

The mountain erupted, showering the ground in stone and dirt, and from its ruined peak burst a massive Grimm dragon.

He needed to reach Amber.

The elevator doors opened before he arrived.

"You're not supposed to be here," said Sulyvahn.

"If you are behind all of this, then who was speaking on the broadcast?" Ozpin asked.

"Alas that I cannot claim credit," Sulyvahn said. "Cinder has done a marvellous job though, hasn't she? I'm almost tempted to forgive her betrayal." _Cinder._ Ozpin knew the name, though he couldn't place it. Was she a student, perhaps?

"I'm here for the key." Sulyvahn drew the Profaned Greatsword and pointed it at Ozpin, his face growing grim and his eyes sparking with malice. "Stand aside. I will not be denied."

"It's not here," Ozpin lied. His grip tightened on his cane.

"I find that hard to believe. What subordinate would you trust with such power?"

"You might find this hard to believe, but I _do_ trust my allies." He flipped his cane to hold it like a baton. Sulyvahn smirked.

"It _is_ here, then. Stand aside, old man. I won't ask again."

"Do you know what waits inside the painting?"

Sulyvahn shrugged. "Power." He twirled the greatsword and gripped it in both hands, taking a step closer to Ozpin.

Ozpin dashed forwards.

Blade met cane in a shower of sparks. Sulyvahn's hands were deft, fending off Ozpin's assault, but the headmaster had centuries of experience over the Pontiff. Sulyvahn retreated, step by step, unable to power through Ozpin's strikes despite his heavier weapon. Sulyvahn's back found the wall, and Ozpin spun, throwing all his weight into a swing that would have put Sulyvahn's head through the plaster, had he not dodged out of the way. A snarl formed on Ozpin's face as he tore his cane from the hole it had left in the wall.

Sulyvahn managed to catch Ozpin's cane near the handle, forcing Ozpin's guard open. A hand shot forth and grasped Ozpin by the face. A lance of pain shot through him; intimate knowledge of his own soul told Ozpin that something was very, _very_ wrong.

"Submit!" Sulyvahn seethed.

Ozpin twisted, bringing his elbow down on Sulyvahn's outstretched arm; the Pontiff withdrew, then reached out once more, making Ozpin's aura spark in protest. Ozpin didn't know what it was the Pontiff was doing, only that it wasn't good. He needed a sanctuary. An escape. Victory or death, he would _not_ allow Sulyvahn to take the key to the Painted World.

He reversed the grip on his cane and slammed the handle into Sulyvahn's chest. The pearl flashed white-

-and then they were falling. Sulyvahn's grip loosened, and the two men fell apart. They sped past the rubble of every age and every land as they fell. Ozpin wondered where they would emerge. Such things were never certain.

They fell towards a dune—or the dune fell towards them—and they rolled away from each other as they landed. On the horizon loomed Old Oasis. When he'd brought Artorias here, it had been a crumbling ruin and the desert a desolate wasteland, but now the towering peaks of Old Oasis were restored in a spectral golden light, and across the desert marched the ghosts of a war long past.

A great shriek split the air, and a Grimm dragon descended from the clouds. On its back, hurling lightning at the ghosts of Silver Knights, was the crowned man with windswept ashen hair: the first king of Mantle.

Sulyvahn whirled around, trying to get his bearings. His eyes widened as a ghostly sword—the Profaned Greatsword, though a far less weathered version of the blade—came swinging down at him, and he raised his weapon to block the blow. It passed straight through him, doing no harm, and split open the skull of a knight in a red tabard.

The crowned, bearded man who wielded the weapon tore it free, and for a moment Ozpin thought their eyes met. But then the ancient king's gaze continued upwards to the dragon. _"Malgwyn!"_ he bellowed, and though Ozpin stood not ten metres away it sounded as though his voice had travelled a great distance to reach him.

Sulyvahn stalked towards them, Profaned Greatsword raised. "Where are we?" he seethed.

A smile played at Ozpin's lips. "Some other time," he said.

Sulyvahn scowled and charged. Now weaponless, Ozpin ducked Sulyvahn's strike, slamming a fist into the Pontiff's side, then danced away, stumbling as a wild swing caught his leg. He needed range. He needed a weapon. But this entire place was forged of Creation itself; he reached down and grabbed a spectral sword from the ground, and with a jolt of his aura it was made physical once more.

Amidst the ghosts of the past, their duel continued. Around them, ghostly warriors fought and died, their translucent corpses piling ever higher. The Grimm dragon was struck from the sky by a bolt of golden lightning, and its rider continued on foot, meeting Gwyn atop the same dune where Ozpin and Sulyvahn fought.

They locked blades, pushing against each other in a contest of strength. Sulyvahn won out, shoving Ozpin away and striking his sword from his hands. Over Sulyvahn's shoulder, Ozpin saw Gwyn strike down the king of Mantle, carving a great gash across his chest.

Sulyvahn advanced. Ozpin stepped backwards, raising his fists.

An almighty crack of thunder shook the ground. Lightning struck the roof of the cathedral in Old Oasis, tearing it asunder.

Ozpin sought another weapon. A wave of his hand and a costly spark of his aura sent all the sands of the desert swirling around them. The world shifted and changed, and they were instead in a darkened stone hallway, stairs at each end, one set leading upwards to a closed door and the other downwards to a chamber that held a hunched figure. Resting against the wall closest to this chamber was a brass hammer shaped like a bell, and next to that a corpse in matching armour.

Ozpin dove for the hammer, grasping it in both hands and spinning into a blind, wild swing. Sulyvahn blocked the blow, but its force was enough to send him flying down the stairs anyway, grunting with pain as he rolled to a halt.

The hunched figure's head snapped upwards, and he leapt to his feet, turning to face the Pontiff. He seemed older than Ozpin remembered, despite the magic of Ringed City, and with a start he realised that it was not time but stress and worry that had aged the old man. His eyes were sunken, his skin wrinkled, his hair falling out, and his clothes hung from a form that had withered away from lack of use.

"OUT!"

His body was too weak to lift the ancient geisteel sword at his side, but his aura picked up the slack, blazing the colour of sunlight through a forest canopy. His onslaught was rapid, furious, every blow leaving Sulyvahn reeling.

Ozpin marched down the stairs, hammer raised, and clobbered Sulyvahn in the back of the head. The Pontiff dropped like a stone, the Profaned Greatsword falling from his hands.

The old man's assault ceased, and his eyes met Ozpin's. For a moment, Ozpin thought there was some recognition there. "Vendrick?" he asked.

Vendrick looked down and away. His sword clattered to the ground, and then he turned to shamble towards the opposite wall, muttering nonsense to himself, his aura dimming once more.

A pity.

" _That's_ Vendrick?" Sulyvahn slurred as he shakily rose to his feet. Ozpin's attention returned to him; as the Pontiff bent down to pick up his sword, Ozpin kicked him in the chin, snapping his head back and sending blood spraying from his mouth. Sulyvahn staggered away, coughing and wheezing.

Wordlessly, Ozpin discarded the brass hammer and picked up the Profaned Greatsword, stalking towards Sulyvahn.

Sulyvahn eyed it warily, then sighed. "Give a dead man his final words."

Ozpin picked him up by the collar, and again the world around them shifted. They emerged in Gwynevere's chamber, and he threw the Pontiff through the closed doors leading into the cathedral. He slumped against the railing.

"…you wouldn't," he whispered, glancing behind him, down to where Aldrich lurked.

"You're a holy man," Ozpin said, approaching slowly, the tip of the Profaned Greatsword dragging along the floor behind him. "You understand that some places should remain sacred. Gwyn's tomb is one of them."

Sulyvahn laughed, half-choking on each and every breath. "And you think this a fitting end for a holy man?"

Ozpin raised the weapon. "I am not without mercy," he said.

The blade came down. Sulyvahn's lifeless head fell from the balcony, landing amidst the disgusting muck. His body went limp, and did not move again.

Ozpin's shoulders slumped. It was over. With a wave of his hand and a tug on his aura, the doors closed. When he pushed them open, they emerged into his office. He crouched down to pick up his cane, collapsing it into its handle and clipping it to his side, then entered the elevator and headed for the ground for, clasping the Profaned Greatsword before him.

"A trip down memory lane?"

Ozpin blinked in surprise. He'd not expected to hear that voice.

A man stood before him, garbed in robes and heavy pauldrons and a breastplate. He stood just as Ozpin did, sword point-down, resting on the floor. A great grey beard covered the lower part of his face.

"Don't be so shocked," Gwyn said mirthlessly. "You did ask for this: for me."

"And what a mistake that was."

"Does it matter? We're not real, Oz."

"It feels more and more real every time."

"I'm sure it does." Gwyn sighed.

They lapsed into silence. Ozpin's eyes traced the lines creasing the ancient king's face.

"Why now?" Ozpin asked. "Why am I seeing you now?"

"I don't know." Ozpin snorted. The real Gwyn would never admit ignorance so readily. "Why see anybody? You're an old man, Oz. A better question: why ask me?"

"Why ask any of us?" Lucatiel's voice sounded behind him; he turned, startled, but did not see her.

"You're all alone," said Malgwyn. Again, he was nowhere to be found.

"Do you expect some great secret to be revealed? Do you want me to confess my many sins? Beg for forgiveness? This isn't me, Oz. I will _never_ ask for your forgiveness, and they will never forgive you. Delude yourself all you want. You are alone," said Gwyn.

Their eyes locked. The elevator doors opened.

"Then let me be alone."

He stepped through his old friend and did not look back.

* * *

 **Oh, Sulyvahn. You were so much fun (actually, he could be _hell_ to write sometimes). Just before the hiatus, I'll probably do a much longer AN and talk about Sulyvahn at great length. The whole 'never writing from his POV' thing was a hindrance at times, I think (that's the point), but also leaves him open to a lot of interpretation.**

 **Ozpin vs Sulyvahn is, of course, the centrepiece of this chapter. I've been drafting and redrafting it since Sulyvahn was first introduced. It might not seem like it, but this was a far more conservative version of the Ringed City scenes than I first intended. Young-ghostly-Vengarl was gonna fight the Mirror Knight in the background, for one, and the Red Hood (has come to eat us... come to eat our dark souls) was gonna show up to spook Ozpin. I still wanted to do the scene with the Red Hood, but I feel it's better suited to spook Oscar later...**

 **Gwyn and Ozpin talking in the elevator is the scene depicted on the cover art. I'll have to drum up something new for V4-onwards, I think.**

 **...and _nothing else of importance happened_ this chapter. No sir. Nothing worth talking about, nup.**

 **Next chapter will be out either on the 26th or the 27th. It depends how much I get done before I start drinking.**


	38. Chapter 37: Monsters

Blake and Weiss had been fortunate enough to not be on Amity when this had all started. For all Blake knew, everyone who'd been on Amity was trapped there. Or dead.

Not that it mattered. They'd both defend Beacon whether there was a promise of backup or not. It was a home. More of a home than Blake could remember, anyway, except for in the distant memories from before the Fang; a time and a place to which she couldn't return.

And speaking of the Fang…

"Be safe," Weiss said, turning to reinforce a squad of soldiers struggling against their own Paladin. Blake responded with a short nod and set off in the other direction, towards an Alpha Beowolf that had been dropped on the school by the Fang. It fled from her approach—or, more likely, pursued juicier prey—towards the cafeteria. Letting out a short growl of annoyance, Blake gave chase, rounding a corner to see it leaping up the wall, its claws tearing chunks from the brick and mortar.

"Gah!" A cry of pain emerged from the building, and Blake turned, startled, to see an Atlesian soldier lifted up on a familiar red blade.

/-/

Ruby's hood blew back from her face. Her cloak whipped around her body as she flew through the air, her hands clinging to Gough's grav-dust arrow like a lifeline. The wind buffeted her a little off course, and she entertained the thought: what if Gough's aim was off?

It didn't matter either way: whether it was the wind or his aim, she missed the flagship but passed by close enough that she could leap from the arrow and land without issue. She tucked her chin down and rolled as she hit the deck, coming up to her feet a moment later. Crescent Rose burst into a scythe in her hands.

She wasn't familiar with the ship's layout, and wasn't sure how to get inside. Glancing around, she quickly realised that that was the least of her worries, for flying in from the mountains was the greatest host of Griffons she had ever heard of, let alone seen—and it its head was a great dragon, its wings wider than the ship was long.

It paid her no heed and flew onwards to the city, but one of the Griffons in its retinue sensed her, splitting off from its fellows, to swoop down at her. She dashed to the side to avoid being squashed, and leapt at it, spinning her scythe around her to force it backwards. Hissing, it retreated, then clawed the ground as though preparing to strike again.

A rocket locker collided with it at something resembling terminal velocity before it could strike back, smearing its black blood across the deck and leaving a puff of feathers in its wake. A figure tumbled away from the locker, rolling along the length of the deck before coming to its feet.

"Ruby?"

"Artorias?"

He adjusted his pauldron, which had taken the brunt of his landing, then looked up at her. "I didn't hit anyone important, did I?" he joked. His smile didn't reach his eyes. "What happened on Amity?"

Ruby's tongue felt dry. "Gilderoy… he's injured. Badly. On his way to a hospital, though. And Penny…"

His face was blank, an emotionless mask. "Well," he said eventually, "nothing we can do about it now." His eyes snapped to a point somewhere behind Ruby, over her shoulder.

She followed his gaze to see Roman's little henchman, Neo, garbed in an Atlas uniform. She pointed a scroll at them, and winked as her clothes shimmered white and pink and brown.

"Can you handle her?" Ruby asked. Artorias nodded, already drawing his sword. "I'll go for the bridge. Keep her busy."

Ruby charged, her semblance accelerating her towards Neo. As expected, Neo dodged her first strike, but it put her on the back foot for Artorias, his blade flashing this way and that in an attempt to overpower her. Ruby continued onwards, trailing rose petals the rest of the way up the ship.

Neo had come from this direction; there had to be a door or a hatch that she could get through.

/-/

The squad of soldiers had all long since died or fled at Weiss' command. None of them were equipped to fight Paladins. And, truth be told, neither was Weiss—not alone, at least.

But the students who'd come streaming up the road from the Beacon docks ought to be more than enough. She didn't recognise every face—in particular the massive bald man with the auburn beard, who'd led the initial charge and promptly disappeared into the fray—but they were all welcome.

She sent the clumsy swing of an Ursa slanting off to the side and jabbed at its throat, sending it stumbling back; an elegant twirl put the soft flesh beneath its bony skull-plate in her sights, and a second thrust pierced its brain. Up the path, Reese Chloris and Neon Katt froze a Paladin's legs in place; Weiss took the opportunity, propelling herself towards it from a glyph, but it reacted faster than she anticipated, knocking her off course with a metal fist.

Looking around, that seemed to be par for the course. An already-tiring Ren could barely evade their strikes, and his blades, though they left long scratches on its metal armour, did nothing more than superficial damage. Gough's arrows did little more than slow the Paladins down. Even Yatsuhashi couldn't meet them in a contest of strength.

Where had Pyrrha gone? Glancing around, Weiss couldn't find her—nor Jaune, for that matter. They could really use a semblance like hers right now. But before the fighting had grown too intense, they'd disappeared into Beacon tower with Ozpin. There was no telling when they'd return.

 _A semblance_ _…_

Somebody had to save their skins. Weiss called upon her glyphs, raising Myrtenaster. The knight came much easier this time, as though he were waiting for her call. She shaped him larger than last time, large enough to match the Paladins…

For a man crippled, unable to even stand properly, he was frighteningly fast, dragging himself forwards with his free hand for more range. Glowing blue and white, his sword came crashing down towards Weiss.

She raised Myrtenaster, and a little dust burst from the tip into a shield, sending the knight's weapon skidding to the side.

"What the…" she heard Sun say.

Velvet snapped a photo.

A glyph glowed around Weiss, and it wasn't one of her own making, glowing not with the Schnee snowflake. This one was a pale, ghostly yellow, and glowing feathers floated upwards from its edges to dissipate moments later.

She stood her ground.

"You will do as I command!" she said, mustering every ounce of authority she could manage.

The knight glared daggers at her, and the feathery glyph began to slowly spin, picking up speed.

A Paladin slammed into the knight from the side, shoving him away and opening fire. The glyph beneath Weiss disappeared.

The knight did not shout in pain, nor roar in anger, but his retribution was swift and terrible. Two wild slashes carved open the Paladin's front, the tongues of fire leaping from his blade scorching the machine's shell black. A third downward slash ensured that the Paladin would never rise again. The second Paladin, sensing the threat, turned to attack the knight. A spectral hand emerged from somewhere behind the knight, and a pale, feathery glyph propelled them both through the second Paladin, striking it down in a single blow.

It was this hand that Weiss latched on to with her semblance, a snowflake the colour of ash trapping it in place. But the glyph could not find purchase, and she dismissed it when the knight approached her once more.

"Stop!" she yelled. "I command you to halt!" She saw Neptune coming up behind the knight to attack it; she summoned a glyph to block his approach. She doubted that he'd ever walk away from such an encounter. Another glyph caught Gough's arrow, and yet another silenced Coco's minigun.

She'd brought this thing back into the world, knowing full well the risk. She wouldn't have her friends suffer for it.

She took a step backwards as the knight stalked towards her.

"Who are you?" she asked. "What are you?"

He halted his approach.

 _"He is my brother,_ _"_ came a voice. It sounded almost like her own brother's voice, if a little older, and it reached her ears as though from across a great distance. _"Forgive him. Sunlight stripped his tongue from him. And forgive me. I_ _…"_

The knight turned toward Beacon tower. _"And still he lives._ _"_ The speaker's form shimmered a little, just enough for Weiss to see that he was robed and hooded, clinging to his brother's back. He turned to face Weiss again. _"Forgive me indeed. Whom do you serve, young scion?_ _"_

She'd been born to impress others. Winter had been raised from birth to inherit the company, and while their father had done his best to groom Weiss for the same purpose after Winter had been disinherited, her early upbringing had left a lasting impression. Her singing career had come of it, for one, and—in hindsight—so had her dream to become a Huntress. She'd come to Beacon with something to prove, and not just to herself.

But the world, she'd realised, owed her nothing. And she owed it nothing in return. Only her friends mattered. Everything else took a lower priority. Even the SDC, because as long as she was doing it for others' sake, it would never satisfy.

Perhaps it was selfish of her. She didn't find it within her to care.

"I serve myself," Weiss said, knowing that it was more what she wanted than what was true. "And you serve me."

 _"I do not wish to,_ _"_ he said. _"And if I submit to your will once, you will never leave me to rest._ _"_ He sighed, and his arm shimmered as he held it to the knight's cheek. _"Peace, dear brother. Servitude or not, it seems we have unfinished business._ _"_ His form shimmered again as he glanced around. _"But we have an audience, and the matter of our binding should be kept from prying eyes and ears. Make sure we speak again, young scion._ _"_

A glyph flashed blindingly bright, and in a burst of feathers, they disappeared. Weiss released the glyphs holding her friends, almost falling to her knees as the exhaustion of the battle finally set in.

Neptune rushed to her side, but she waved him away, using Myrtenaster to prop herself up. "He's gone," she said. "We're clear."

Further down the path from Beacon tower, another Paladin dashed around a corner and began barrelling towards them.

"You've got to be _kidding_ me!" Sun growled, echoing Weiss' own thoughts.

/-/

Artorias gritted his teeth. "So, _last_ time," he said, ducking a kick that had come out of nowhere, "you threw me off an airship."

Neo backed away and stroked her chin thoughtfully, the picture of innocence. Then she nodded, a bright, happy smile on her face.

"This one's considerably higher off the ground."

Her smile broadened.

"Let's _not_ do that again, alright?"

She shrugged and, before he knew it, she'd crossed the gap between them. He managed to bat away her first kick with the back of his gauntleted hand, but was forced to go on the defensive for a brief exchange—one or two of the diminutive girl's kicks getting through his guard—before he successfully warded her away with a heavy punch to the shoulder.

He'd been aiming for her face, but it was better than nothing. It put her at arm's length—or, more accurately _beyond_ arm's length, where he could strike her with his longer blade but where she could not. He levelled his weapon at her and made it clear he'd strike at a single movement. He had little doubt she could dodge it, but it was a risk she clearly wasn't quite willing to take, backing away even further so that they were effectively stalemated.

A crash shook their concentration. Behind Neo, Ruby crashed out of a window on the observation deck, scythe landing close by. Roman Torchwick stepped through the shattered glass after her, twirling his cane. And following him was the Fume Knight.

"Ah, wolf!" Roman greeted. "I was hoping somebody was babysitting Neo." The girl in question stuck her tongue out at Roman. "Mind if I-"

"He's mine," Raime growled, picking his way through the glass strewn about the deck. "Stand aside, girl. Do not interfere."

"Now that's hardly fair," Artorias said. "She softened me up."

Raime tugged a knife from his belt and tossed it to Artorias, who caught it in his left hand. It was the dagger he'd lost in Carim.

"In the interest of fighting fairly," Raime said. He hefted his greatsword, the end clanking against the metal floor.

Neo pouted, but departed to help Roman.

Artorias sheathed his dagger and gripped his sword in both hands, shifting onto his back foot in a defensive stance.

Raime moved first, his heavy boots pounding on the deck as he charged. Artorias met him halfway, swinging straight for his neck; Raime parried and retaliated, his greatsword humming as it split the air. Artorias ducked the blow and aimed for the Fume Knight's leg; his greatsword sparked along the floor as he spun it into position to block. Raime's second blade came loose of its sheath, and Artorias leaned back and away from the quick swipe.

Back it went into the sheath, and Raime gripped his massive sword in both hands, following Artorias along the ship with an overhead strike. Unwilling to block it with strength alone, Artorias sent it slanting off to the side, where it bit deep into the steel deck, leaving Raime open. Artorias rushed to capitalise, throwing all his weight into every swing. His feet jarred with every heavy step as he drove the Fume Knight backwards, staying too close for that massive, dangerous weapon to be of any use.

Across the deck, Ruby and Neo clashed while Roman stood by, content to let the colourful girl fight for him save for the occasional swing when an opportunity presented itself. Artorias watched as Neo kicked Ruby towards Roman, sending Crescent Rose spinning from her grasp. Roman bounced his cane from the deck into Ruby's face, leaving her staggering and disoriented. His cane returned to his hand and he aimed a quick blast at her, sending her flying off the edge of the ship.

"Ruby!" Artorias called. He slowed his assault, affording Raime a strike that clobbered him across his midriff, sending him skidding backwards along the deck, gasping for air.

He saw Neo approach the edge of the ship, where Crescent Rose was left embedded in the steel, and aim her blade down. Ruby must be holding on.

Artorias grabbed a dust crystal from his pouch and threw it over Raime's head towards Neo. It twinkled pale blue against the night sky.

It plinked off the back of Neo's head uselessly.

She shot a dirty look over her shoulder and poked her tongue out at him. Ruby capitalised on the distraction, swinging from Crescent Rose back up onto the deck and tearing her weapon loose with a blast of recoil.

Artorias had a rather more pressing matter to deal with, deploying his shield to block Raime's downward strike. Sparks flew from the impact. Raime chambered another strike, but something rocked the ship before he could swing.

They stood in silence, crouched low to maintain balance while the ship shuddered. A banging came from below deck.

"Lautrec!" Raime shouted suddenly. He turned on his heel and fled towards the broken window into the observation deck. Artorias gave chase, drawing his dagger. A large Griffon swooped down to block their path, but Raime sliced its leg off without slowing down, leaving it to collapse in Artorias' path; he gave it a wide berth to avoid the flailing wings that threatened to sweep him off the deck, then continued to chase the Fume Knight into the ship's bowels.

/-/

"You're here to kill me."

"I'm not much of a fighter." The man whom others call Lapp removed his helmet and placed it down atop the console, noting the scroll inserted in the port that glowed red and black. Cinder did have a little flair for the dramatic, he supposed.

But then, who didn't? He shook his head and ran his fingers along his bare scalp as if to alleviate helmet-hair. Sure, he'd come into the world at the ripe old age of balding, but he could dream, right?

"But you _are_ here to kill me," Lautrec said. His wrist, shackled to the fixed leg of the chair, was red and raw from his attempts to free himself.

"I'm here to _have you killed_ ," Lapp corrected. "It's a small mercy. A better fate than what Raime has in store for you, anyway, and a far better fate than you deserve."

"And what do you think I deserve?" Lautrec asked.

"Well," Lapp said, "let's see. You're a murderer. That's already damning. But you also murdered an innocent, which is-"

"She was _not_ innocent."

"Relatively innocent, then." Lapp shrugged. The ship shuddered, and his nose wrinkled. "Sure is taking his time. Where was I? Oh. Thing is, what you deserve and what you get are completely different. If someone gave me what I deserved, I'd either be set up on my own personal tropical island for life or damned to the deepest pit of hell for all eternity. Or both, as it so happened."

Lautrec scowled. "Get it over with, then."

"Oh, this won't be quick." The ship shuddered again, and from the hallway outside the bridge Lapp could hear the heavy pounding of feet. He stood and collected his helmet, heading for the other exit, pausing as the door opened before him. "The name's Patches, by the way," he said. "I suppose I owe you that, if nothing else. Good luck dying, friend."

The other door began to open, only getting halfway before it buckled under the beast's weight.

/-/

Artorias pursued Raime through the shattered window, down a flight of stairs, and through a series of winding corridors. They came to a wide door that had been torn apart, revealing the ship's bridge. Shackled to the chair were Lautrec's bloody remains, his chest torn open and his face mauled almost beyond recognition. Raime charged through the door blindly, but a figure leapt from the corner, knocking Raime through a console and pinning him to the ground. His greatsword fell not far from him.

Vordt stood over the Fume Knight, his armour and claws stained red with blood. He swung down at Raime, his claw bouncing off aura, then Raime managed to roll him off and rise to his feet, collecting his greatsword where it had fallen. But Vordt recovered faster than Raime anticipated, diving at him once more, and they both crashed through the central console. Again, Raime threw him off, though this time with far more force, and Vordt crashed into the viewing window, sending spidery cracks running through the fibreglass.

Every screen in the room began to flash red. Throughout the ship, warning sirens began to sound, and, after a final shudder, the ship began to fall to the ground, tilting forwards as it did so. From where he stood by the door, Artorias could read one screen clearly: "Evacuate," it flashed.

He didn't need telling twice.

He turned to flee, leaving Vordt and Raime to their brawl, and almost crashed into Roman as he came barrelling down the hallway, Neo hot on his heels. They all skidded to a halt, levelling their weapons at each other even as the hallway tilted on a steeper and steeper incline. "Where's Ruby?" Artorias asked.

"Probably chasing us, the little rat." Roman peered over Artorias' shoulder into the bridge. True to form, Ruby came hurtling around the corner a few seconds later.

"What happened?" she asked.

"Ship's gone. Will be soon, anyway," Roman said. He breathed long and deeply. "I suppose nobody wins, unless you're going to try and arrest us. Personally, I'd like to get off this deathtrap before it's too late. So… step aside, little Red."

Ruby's eyes hardened, and she tightened her grip on her scythe.

"There's no time," Artorias said.

Behind Artorias, there was an almighty crash. He whirled around to see what had happened; the viewing window had finally been smashed, and Raime and Vordt tumbled out of it, still locked in their brawl.

"Go," Ruby said, her voice low. "If we see you again-"

"I'm sure you'll do your utmost best to take me down, you heroic huntress, you," Roman said, bowing mockingly. He and Neo set off down the hall, though he stopped to whisper something in Ruby's ear before disappearing around the corner.

"What did he say?" Artorias asked.

"Nothing important. Let's go. There should be some dropships or gunships towards the back of the ship."

"Any idea how to fly them?"

"Can't be that hard."

/-/

"Think you can pull that off again?"

Weiss shook her head, still leaning heavily on Myrtenaster. Even if the knight had obeyed her, she felt drained beyond her limit.

Coco pursed her lips. "Velvet!" she called.

"Really?" the Faunus asked.

"Make 'em count."

Velvet stepped forwards to meet the charging Paladin, but before she could draw a weapon the red light faded from its cockpit and it collapsed, digging a trench in the pathway as it slid towards them, halting mere inches from Velvet.

"Huh," Coco said. "Nevermind then."

"Weiss!" The girl being addressed looked up at the sound of Yang's voice; she was rushing over from the general direction of the dorms. "You're okay! Have you heard from Ruby?" Weiss shook her head. "What about Blake?"

"She went after an Alpha," Weiss said, her voice tired and hoarse. She raised an arm and gestured in the general direction Blake had gone.

"Ruby was on the airship," Gough said. "The one that…"

"The one that crashed. I saw it." Yang's fists clenched. "She'll be in the city somewhere. I'm sure of it. I'll find Blake."

"And Smough," Gough said. "My brother. He disappeared at the start of the battle."

"I'll keep an eye out for him. Get to the docks, all of you. This isn't going to get any better."

/-/

The elevator doors opened into the vault, and Ozpin ran down it as quickly as he was able, hearing Pyrrha and Jaune's footsteps close behind.

"What is this place?" Jaune asked.

"It's… a type of vault," Pyrrha responded.

"You've been here before?" he asked. Her silence was telling. "What would this school need to hide?"

Ozpin skidded to a halt before the aura transfer machine and leaned the Profaned Greatsword against the console. "Pyrrha, get to the pods," he commanded, whirling around on them both. There was no time for distraction, no time for explanation. This had to happen _now_. He could only hope that Qrow and Ironwood were handling Lautrec's end of things. "Mr Arc, if you'd like to help, you can stand guard here."

He turned to the console, typing in the many passcodes required to begin, an unfortunate handover from a more fortunate time. They'd had the luxury of security once—not that long ago, really. Only a few hours.

But no. This was a scheme far more than a few days in the making. They'd been blind, despite the security.

"What do we do now?" Pyrrha asked.

" _We_ do nothing," Ozpin said. "You, Miss Nikos, have a choice to make."

The silence was terrifying. She looked to Jaune, and Ozpin wondered what went through her head. Perhaps he would hold her back. Perhaps he would inspire her to rise to the occasion.

He hoped it would be the latter. Though even Ozpin couldn't predict the outcome of the aura transfer with total accuracy, it was a risk they'd have to take.

They'd have to take more risks, gather more allies, if they were to survive this war. And, Ozpin thought, glancing at the Profaned Greatsword, a fragile alliance was better than none.

Pyrrha wiped at her eye and stepped up into the pod. Ozpin sealed it shut.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

She nodded once.

"I… I need to hear you say it," Ozpin said.

Because, gods forbid, if something went wrong…

Because, gods forbid, if something went _right_ _…_

"Yes."

Ozpin looked away. "Thank you, Miss Nikos."

/-/

Blake scuttled away, hearing Adam's angry strikes cut through chairs and tables. She tripped and fell on a bit of rubble, but rolled to her knees, bringing up her pistol.

"This could have been _our_ day; can't you see that?" He stalked towards her, sheathing his blade.

"I never wanted this. I wanted equality; I wanted peace!" She fired off two shots as he came closer. He caught both.

"What you want is impossible!" he said. He crossed the remaining distance between them, then slapped her across the face before she could rise. Her eyes watered from the pain. "But I understand. Because all I want is _you_ , Blake." She tried to raise her weapon, but he kicked it away. "And as I set out upon this world and deliver the justice mankind so greatly deserves, I will make it my mission to destroy everything you love."

"Blake!" Adam tilted his head, listening for the cries. Ember Celica fired once faintly. "Blake, where are you?"

 _Run!_ Blake wanted to tell her.

And Adam knew. Because he still knew her better than anybody. He smiled. "Starting with her," he said.

/-/

"Ozpin!"

A dark fog rushed up the hallway, obscuring Jaune's vision. He could hear cries of pain, the din of combat, and, above it all, footsteps that echoed, one after the other, perfectly timed.

But he couldn't see anything.

Ozpin whirled around, grabbing the strange greatsword he'd carried with him. "Stay back," he ordered. He pressed one last button on the console, and the coffin with the dreaming girl began to glow orange. "Don't let it be interrupted."

He raised his cane, and a light shone from its handle just as he fog reached them. It didn't do much to illuminate the room; Jaune could see faint silhouettes now, perhaps, but still nothing more.

He heard Pyrrha's screams behind him, and he wanted to go to her, but knew he had far more pressing matters.

Something came rushing at him through the darkness. He stepped forwards to meet it, but the figure was slippery, weaving past his shield bash. He saw a flash of green hair rushing towards Ozpin before he was forced to turn once more, this time to block the blow of a curved, flaming sword. The weight of the strike slid him backwards across the floor a little, but he didn't miss the woman in red ducking beneath the flames.

"Back!" he roared, strafing to block her path. She did not slow down, instead leaping at him full-speed. He caught her on his shield, but she leapt off it like a springboard, and the blades in her hand came together to form a bow…

The quiet _tink_ of the arrow piercing glass was deafening.

 _Pyrrha!_ He whirled around, praying to any deity that would listen that it wasn't her. She was unharmed, but the other girl with the scarred face had an arrow through her heart.

She breathed her last.

The orange light shone brightly, rushing back into the girl's body where it burst out of her chest into the fog, illuminating it for a brief second.

Flames cut through the darkness, and the sound of the measured paces finally ceased, taken over by a strangled, ear-splitting cry. The door to one of the pods was blown away, and Pyrrha came up to stand alongside him, looking pale.

The darkness receded rapidly to reveal the woman in red, floating some two metres off the ground. Scorching flames flowed from her outstretched hand, the Dancer in flames. Behind her stood Emerald and Mercury, looking exhausted but determined.

The woman in red, then… that was their team leader. What was her name?

Cinder?

"Take this," Ozpin said to Pyrrha.

"What?"

Ozpin shoved the greatsword towards her. "Get it to Vengarl. Tell him that it will remind her who she is. He'll know what it means. Find Glynda. Ironwood. Qrow. The tower must _not_ fall," he said.

"But I can help!"

He pressed the sword into her hands and stepped forwards, taking another sword from its mantle on the wall. He spun it in his hand with a practiced flourish, getting himself used to its balance.

"You'll only get in the way," he said.

Jaune and Pyrrha shared a glance. They did not need telling twice. They ran for the elevator, giving the smoking corpse of the creature a wide berth. Cinder watched them go but did not follow, instead waving for Emerald and Mercury to give chase.

They stumbled into the elevator. Jaune mashed the button for the ground floor, and Pyrrha held the doors shut with her semblance.

/-/

A cry split the air. It was Blake. Yang couldn't mistake it. Blake was in pain. Blake her partner. Blake her friend.

Her head turned towards it. It was surreal, still, everlasting, burned into her eyes forevermore. Blake, her arm outstretched, a blade piercing her stomach. That strange man… that monster. White Fang. He sheathed his red blade, a smirk dancing at the edge of his mouth. "GET AWAY FROM HER!" Yang roared.

Blake was saying something. She was aware of that, in a way. Blake was saying something _to_ her.

But Yang couldn't hear it, not really. And she didn't care. All she could hear was blood, roaring in her ears, screaming at her to _act._

Yang roared with it and launched herself forwards.

She saw the moment the monster's blade came loose in its sheathe again. Colour drained from the world as it arced towards her.

This was a mistake, she realised. She'd messed up, and it would cost her more than she could afford.

A red vortex burst into existence between them. She passed through it, caught the glimpse of a mask—a different one, this one larger, behind it a mane of pitch-black hair—then through another red vortex.

"Rav- Yang?"

"Dad?"

/-/

Blake couldn't breathe.

Time seemed to slow down as Adam's blade came free of its sheath. Yang disappeared in a flash of red light, but the blade continued its path of destruction, slicing cleanly through a pillar standing some five metres to Adam's right.

He sheathed his blade. "Hmph." He turned to face her, and despite the mask Blake was sure that his smile didn't reach his eyes. "It seems she has a powerful friend." He walked towards her, his shoes clacking on the ground. Blake struggled to her feet, blood oozing from the wound in her side, her head feeling light.

It was when she took her first shaky step that Adam's scowl returned. His pace sped up, and just as she was taking her third step away he struck her with the flat of his sword, knocking her face-down to the ground once more. "Come with me, my love," he said, his voice low, "and I will ensure that you suffer before your time is up."

She felt his hand on the back of her collar, then a heard a sudden thud and a crash, and his hand was gone.

"Get up!" someone yelled. Her mystery saviour grabbed her roughly by the shoulder and rolled her over, laying two fingers against her neck to check for a pulse. "Come on, get up!" He was a big man—bigger even than Yatsuhashi, bigger than Gough—with a bald head and an auburn beard and a huge golden hammer held loosely in his right hand as though it were as light as a feather. He set it down on the ground and, swearing, tore the ribbon from her head and held it against her wound. "Hold it here," he said. His eyes lingered a little on her ears before he shook his head. "Come on!" he repeated.

Blake blinked once, twice, then—with the stranger's help, climbed to her feet once more. Adam was embedded in the opposite wall, spidery cracks running along it from where he'd impacted. He peeled himself from the wall, rubble beginning to rain around him. His aura flickered, and a dislocated knee popped back into place.

"Another dogged contender," he snarled.

"Can you run?"

"Maybe," Blake mumbled.

"Go. Go!" He turned so that he was between her and Adam, and hefted his hammer.

"He'll kill you."

"He can fucking try. Get out of here!"

Blake understood. As long as she was away, he'd be able to run too. She took one shaky step, then another, picking up a stumbling gait.

"Stop running, Blake!" roared Adam.

"Eyes here, you mangy bastard!" She quelled the bile rising in her throat. Behind her, she heard metal striking metal.

"And who are _you_ , exactly?"

"Smough god-damn Iris. And you're a dead beast."

That was the last Blake heard. She feared that if she stopped, she'd be unable to start moving again. So she fled, half-crawling, as far as her rapidly weakening body could carry her.

/-/

"This whole time," Cinder said, her voice low and angry. Her eyes flitted to the old Fall Maiden briefly, then back to Ozpin. "Right beneath our feet."

Ozpin said nothing. His cane collapsed into its handle and he hooked it to his belt. His stance shifted, and he hunched low, the silver sword in his left hand angled away.

A burst of energy lit up the room before coalescing around Ozpin's sword, sheathing it in hues of silver and pale green. All the lights of the night sky twinkled and shimmered in the depths of the glowing blade, casting long shadows about the room.

Cinder's eyes narrowed. "She was right about you. Such arrogance."

* * *

 **Is that a Ludwig's Bizarre Adventure reference?**

 **Yeah. The Moonlight Greatsword of _Dark Souls_ , sadly, has nothing on _Bloodborne's_ Holy Moonlight Sword, at least as far as aesthetics are concerned. Does this mean Ludwig existed in this world? No (though it doesn't mean he _didn't_ either; I have thrown a few other _Bloodborne_ references around, though this is the first one to go beyond worldbuilding). If you'll recall, in an earlier chapter Ozpin mused that one of the weapons Gwyn forged when he was trying to recreate the Relic of Destruction was held in the Vault beneath Beacon. That's its backstory here.**

 **RIP Lautrec, RIP Smough, RIP Dancer, RIP Vordt, RIP Amber. Raime will live, though he's failed utterly in his task thanks to Patches. Not that he knows who to blame. But I can't kill Raime off until he and Vengarl come face to face again. Well, I _could_ , but I don't want to.**

 **Lautrec suffered walking-macguffin-syndrome because I didn't commit to the backstory I planned for him. There are reasons for that I'll go into before hitting the hiatus, but for the time being rest assured that I _know_ I fucked up with him.**

 **Smough is _another dogged contender._ In the original plan for how V3 would play out, Gilderoy wasn't nearly as badly wounded, but Smough was a hell of a lot more racist, so the idea was that he would get separated from the students and rampage through the White Fang. That still happens here, but the motive is less about racism and more that the only way he knows how to handle his emotions is through violence.**

 **We've got two more chapters to go before a hiatus. I'm not sure if the next one will be on Friday. It depends on how long I'm away over the next two days. But it'll definitely be coming on the weekend.**


	39. Chapter 38: The Shining Beacon

Lights flickered in the darkness beneath Beacon Academy.

Viridian moonlight arced against blades that burned with realized ambition. The Wizard moved with speed and grace, coming at his foe from all sides all at once, eventually blasting her down the hallway. But the Maiden was not helpless; she righted herself as she slid along the ground, Dust leaving fire trailing in her wake that she sent flying back at the Wizard.

One fought with the desperate hope that they could halt a plan already in motion. A desperate hope, but a hope nonetheless. The school was in ruins. Vale might soon follow. Though he fought alone, it was this hope that gave him the strength to close the gap between them and strike again.

The other fought with pride. Pride that they'd accomplished what others could not; pride that gave conviction that she would go on to achieve other impossible feats. It was this surety in her own purpose that drove her, that sheathed her weapons in flame and that held her floating above the ground.

Snarling, the Wizard batted aside the arrow that came down from above. His eyes fixed on his enemy, he thrusted his blade forwards. Light flowed from its tip like water from a fountain, coating the room with blinding energy. His hope focused it into a beam that rushed, roaring, for the Maiden floating before him. Flames spilled from her hands into a shield, so thick they almost dripped from her fingertips, dispersing the moonlight across its surface into brilliant hues of green and red and orange and blue.

Her battlecry was drowned out by the roaring flames as she rushed the Wizard, pushing through his deadly onslaught. As she approached, she raised her weapon.

/-/

Jaune burst out of Beacon tower, Pyrrha close behind him. He stopped for a moment to breathe, then pulled his scroll from his pocket. "Okay," he said. "I think I have Glynda's number."

Pyrrha turned, her eyes fixed on the tower doors. Even with so much rock and soil between them and the Vault, the faint sounds of combat could be heard.

"Pyrrha?" Jaune asked. "What was all of that?"

"I…" She heard footsteps within the lobby. "Hold this!" she said, pushing the greatsword Ozpin had given her towards Jaune.

He took it without question, and Pyrrha pulled her shield from her back. Jaune clearly had little experience with a greatsword, but his stance, though intended for use with lighter weaponry, would to in a pinch.

Pyrrha stretched her hand towards the door, reaching out with her semblance.

Emerald and Mercury burst through it, rushing towards them. With a flick of her wrist, Pyrrha tore Emerald's revolver-sickles from her hands, flinging them into the bushes surrounding the base of the tower. Closing her hand into a fist, she tripped Mercury and threw him back into the tower.

Jaune let out a warcry and swung the greatsword at Emerald as she descended the steps, weaponless but clearly unfazed by it. She sidestepped Jaune's first swing and ducked his second to throw a punch in his gut, below his breastplate, but by that point Pyrrha had drawn her sword and stepped in to meet her. Emerald retreated, arms raised to block their onslaught. Their blades elicited sparks of aura as they glanced off her forearms.

Mercury came charging through the doors once more, and Pyrrha's attention split, taking a step back from Emerald to root Mercury in place.

That done, she turned back to Emerald and Jaune. The green-haired girl had—somehow—managed to get behind Jaune without him noticing, and promptly pulled him into a headlock.

"Jaune!"

Pyrrha let go of Mercury's legs with her semblance, instead fixing on Jaune's breastplate to wrench him away with enough force to leave Emerald staggering. Pyrrha charged in, blade glinting in the light of the shattered moon. Emerald tried to flee, but Pyrrha did not let up, years of practice and semblance-enhanced strikes whittling down her near-helpless opponent's aura in seconds.

Emerald let out of a cry of pain and stumbled backwards, falling to the ground

"Em!"

Something collided with Pyrrha's cheek, and she was vaguely aware that it was a metal boot before her semblance latched on to it, raising Mercury in the air.

Gathering her aura around his legs, she flung him east, high into the air to land deep in the ruins of the school.

"Please… help."

Her attention returned to Emerald, who had crawled towards her weapons. There was a deep stab wound on her left thigh, and blood gushed from a wound cutting across her exposed midriff.

Pyrrha looked down at her. Somewhere deep inside, she felt a pang of guilt. She quashed it as best she could. Emerald had attacked her. Emerald had been part of all this. Beacon had fallen, and not only did Emerald stand by, she'd helped.

Jaune walked up alongside her, leaning a little on the greatsword like a walking stick. He must have landed oddly on his leg when she'd pulled him away from Emerald.

Emerald coughed, and blood came up. "I didn't… it was never meant to get like this." She groaned as she tried to crawl further away. "Kill the Maiden. That was it. But now…?"

The ground shook beneath them. From beneath Beacon tower came the loud crackling of fire, rising steadily up the elevator shaft.

Jaune looked away. "Ozpin…"

There was no time to get Emerald to a jail cell.

"I didn't want this." Emerald dragged herself further along the ground. "But Cinder… I owe her everything. But I never wanted this."

Pyrrha's eyes remained fixed on Emerald. _But you still caused it,_ she thought. _And as long as she continues following that horrible woman, she will help cause more tragedies._

Her grip tightened on her weapon.

Emerald's eyes widened.

But Pyrrha knew she couldn't stoop to killing her either. Something in Emerald's voice reached her. Somewhere, deep down, the girl was just that: a girl, frightened of what she was becoming but in too deep to leave.

"What do we do?" Jaune asked.

"You're not a murderer," Emerald said.

"Pyrrha?"

"Go," Pyrrha said.

"What?" Jaune asked.

Emerald smiled, then winked out of existence. Pyrrha blinked in surprise.

/-/

"Next time," Artorias said, staggering down from the Atlesian dropship, "I'm piloting."

"What?" Ruby asked, following him onto the central landing pad at Beacon. "I think I did well."

He didn't respond, casting his gaze around. Weiss knelt next to somebody, obscuring their form; Gough stood with her. Nora and Ren lay nearby, alive but exhausted. Sun and Neptune were near one of the transports, speaking with the soldiers in hushed tones. Other students and civilians stood around, some sobbing, some doing what little they could to tend to their wounds while Port and Oobleck directed people onto transports.

Ruby dashed past him. "Weiss!" she called.

Weiss stood and turned towards them. "Ruby! Thank god you're alright."

"I'm fine too," Artorias quipped, following Ruby. "Have you heard from Ciaran?" he asked Gough.

"No. I'm taking no news as good news," he said.

"What's going on?" Ruby asked.

Weiss bit her lip, looked away, then stepped to the side.

Blake lay there, unconscious, the makeshift bandage at her side soaked with blood. "The last I saw Yang, she was looking for her," Weiss said. "Blake said she disappeared."

"She disappeared?" Ruby asked.

Weiss nodded. "She wasn't entirely lucid when she made it here."

Ruby pursed her lips, then nodded.

"Hey," Sun said, picking his way through a huddled group of civilians towards them. "The soldiers have a ship ready to take her to Vale. You should probably go with her."

"But Jaune and Pyrrha are still missing!" Nora said, trying to stand. She winced and clutched her side, falling back to the ground.

"What?" Artorias asked. _Pyrrha…_

The Maiden. Ozpin was surely with them.

"Look, guys, that giant Grimm keeps circling the school. Even the White Fang are pulling out. We all have to go. Now!"

"We're not leaving!" Ren said. He too tried to stand, and though he at least made it to his feet, he quickly collapsed again, groaning.

Artorias glanced around. Ozpin wasn't here. He certainly wouldn't be in the city either—not unless he'd somehow been able to get Amber there. Or Pyrrha, if the transfer was successful.

But they weren't.

Something had gone wrong. Perhaps they were dead already.

"I'll find them," Ruby said, her voice ringing with determination. "I'll find them, and I'll bring them back."

"No." Weiss said. She was clearly nearing exhaustion, but her eyes were as steel. " _We_ will find them."

"I will accompany you," Gough said. "I must find my brother."

"Gough, it's too late," Artorias said. "How long has he been gone? Don't be an idiot."

"Then come with us," Gough said. "I will not change my mind. Let us be idiotic together, then."

 _Damn him._ Artorias took a swig from his flask. It did little to make him feel better. "Fine." A jolt of aura expanded his shield. "I'll take point."

/-/

"I… I was thinking," Pyrrha said.

Jaune frowned, but nodded. "I can't reach Glynda or Ironwood," he said. "And I don't have, uh, what was his name?"

"Qrow."

"Right." He glanced up at Beacon tower; past the beating wings of the dragon, he could see a faint orange glow. "We can't fight her." She'd killed Ozpin, after all.

Pyrrha followed his gaze up the tower. A look came over her that Jaune didn't recognise, but he knew its meaning plain as day. She was going up there. "No. Pyrrha, you can't! You saw how powerful she is." Pyrrha ignored him—or, at least, made no sign that she was listening.

This was her destiny, he realised. Or, at least, Pyrrha felt that it was. To stop Cinder. To save the world. Well, to save Beacon and go from there.

But it was suicide.

Pyrrha took her first step towards the tower. Jaune's heart did a flip. She could die. She almost certainly _would_ die.

He couldn't let that happen.

 _I don't know about destiny,_ Jaune thought, _but I think mine is to be with you._

He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her into a kiss.

Her eyes widened in shock even as he closed his. After a second of confusion, she relaxed, leaning into the embrace. Her lips were soft and strangely tasteless, though not bland. Rather, they were tasteless as water is tasteless; fulfilling and satisfying, a necessity for life.

He needed her. How had he not realised that until now? She believed in him with all her being in a way that nobody else ever had, not even his family.

 _But I believe in you._

And that revealed to him his hypocrisy. Pyrrha believed in him, but to deny her this was to lose faith in her. She needed somebody to believe in her as she did him. The thought coiled around his heart like a snake, tightening until he could hardly even feel her lips against his own.

Blind faith in her would lead to her demise. Yet it was faith that she needed so desperately from him right now. And perhaps she would pull through. She was Pyrrha god-damn Nikos.

But his own destiny—selfish and self-appointed as it was—went against that. The school would fall. The tower Ozpin died to protect would fall. But Pyrrha would certainly live.

Selfishness won.

Their lips finally disconnected, and he held her close. "I'm sorry," he whispered. Sorry for taking so long to discover his own feelings. Sorry for losing faith. At any moment, she could push him away with her semblance, he realised.

All he had were words.

She rested her head against his chest and breathed deeply. "Get to Vale," she whispered. "Call for help."

"Don't do this…"

"Somebody has to." She pulled away and looked up the tower once more. The Grimm dragon was climbing up its side, claws tearing chunks from the walls. "Go!" she said.

Jaune tried to comply. To believe. But the snake wrapped tighter around his heart. "I need you!" he called. He dashed after her as she reached the bottom of the steps, reaching out for her once more.

She whirled around, arms stretched towards him, and threw him backwards towards a rocket locker. Tears sprayed across the ground with the movement, and she could not meet his eyes. "Pyrrha, no!"

"I'm sorry," she said, punching a sequence of numbers into the locker.

The ground sped away from him, and all he was left with was an image of her eyes in his mind, downcast and frightened.

/-/

A burning fist cut through the leg of the headmaster's desk, revealing the little poppet Sulyvahn had wanted so desperately. Why, Cinder didn't know. She assumed it led to some ancient power or other. Why else was Sulyvahn after it so desperately? Why else would Ozpin hide it away?

She glanced around the office. Well, unless it was something else here that Sulyvahn had been looking for. She could see nothing of inherent value.

From beneath her, she could hear the sound of metal grinding on metal, coming up the elevator shaft. She stood upright and turned towards the doors.

They burst open, and a spear came flying out of it towards her head. She leaned aside easily and raised her hands to block the shield flying for her face, pushing the girl attached to it away. Pyrrha Nikos landed on her feet and, with her semblance, called her weapons to her.

This was the girl Ozpin had chosen to be the next Fall Maiden. She couldn't see why. She was certainly brave, but foolishly so.

Cinder raised her hand, and flames burst forth.

/-/

Brute force brought Artorias' shield through the Beowolf's guard. He ducked through its wild off-balance swipe to take on the next, knowing that Ruby or Weiss or Gough would handle the first. An upwards swing took off an Ursa's head as it reared up to crush him.

"Did you see where Smough went?" he asked.

Gough shook his head.

The courtyard was more-or-less clear now, though more red eyes lurked in the shadows of the surrounding buildings, Griffons circled overhead, and the Grimm dragon clung to the side of the tower. A handful of Grimm prowled around the smouldering ruin of the cafeteria. Artorias' eyes widened.

There was a golden handle poking out from the rubble.

"Gough!" he called, dashing over to it. He slapped aside a Creep that rushed towards him and tossed a Beowolf behind him off his shield as it lunged for his throat for Gough to finish off.

His shield became a gauntlet, and he grabbed the handle, pulling hard, dislodging rubble around it. He heard Gough's footsteps slow behind him. After a few more seconds, the object came loose, and he pulled a golden hammer from the ground. A gash ran through its head, and the metal had bent and warped as though it had been ripped apart.

"No…"

Gough rushed to his side, digging through the rubble as best he could with his hands. "Smough!"

Behind them, Weiss' scroll began to buzz and beep. "It's Jaune!" she said. Ruby moved closer, glancing over her partner's shoulder. "Where are you?"

" _Weiss! Please, you have to help her."_

"What?"

" _Pyrrha! She's going after that woman—at the top of the tower. She doesn't stand a chance!"_ Artorias looked up—sure enough, he saw flashes of orange through the windows.

"SMOUGH!"

"We don't have time, Gough!" Artorias pulled at the larger man's shoulder, but Gough shoved him away to continue digging. "What happened to Ozpin? Where are you?" Artorias asked.

" _There's no time! Please… you have to save her."_

"We will," Weiss assured him. "Are you okay?"

A scream came through the speaker, followed by silence. Artorias grimaced. If Jaune were in serious trouble, he'd have said something, surely.

"Jaune?" Weiss asked. Still, there was no response. The call was dead. "Jaune!"

The ground shuddered beneath them. Artorias planted his sword in the ground for balance. The Grimm dragon launched itself from the side of the tower, and its wing-beats caused such a gale that he could hardly hear. Grimm fell from it like black, oily raindrops.

Crescent Rose expanded in Ruby's hand. "Gough, we need you to focus."

He whirled on them, his eyes full of tears. "If this were your sister," he snarled. "What would _you_ do?"

He clearly expected her to wince, or even recoil in shock. But Ruby stood her ground, and Gough's resolve wavered, his eyes turning away. "I'd keep moving forward," she said, her voice quiet and small. "Like Yang did for me. It's the only thing we can do."

Gough looked down at his hands, stained with dirt and tears. "Promise me we'll come back for him. We'll bury him."

"We promise," Artorias said. Ruby and Weiss nodded in agreement. "We need you now, Gough."

Gough's eyes met his own. For the first time, Artorias saw anger in them. "You hated him anyway," Gough said.

Artorias flinched. Gough rose to his feet, stowing his brother's hammer on his back and picking up his bow. He breathed deeply, then nodded sharply to Ruby.

"Come on," she said. "I have a plan." They rushed back towards the tower, cutting down Grimm as they fell from the dragon's wings. "Gough, we need the dragon out of the way. We'll watch your back. Once the sky is clear, Weiss can get me up the side of the tower."

Gough said nothing, only wordlessly nocking an arrow and drawing back his bow, aiming upwards.

/-/

Pyrrha pushed herself to her feet, taking a deep breath. Cinder flew through the air towards her, fire trailing from her fingertips. There was no time to retrieve her weapons; Pyrrha leapt, twisting midair to brace her feet against the wall as Cinder slammed into her. She hooked her arm beneath the Maiden's own and rolled, tossing her backwards towards the room's centre.

She gave the woman no time to catch her breath, calling her weapons to her and giving chase. The edge of her shield slammed into Cinder's stomach, pushing her back. But it hadn't even winded her, and Cinder blocked her next flurry with ease, aura cracking out from her palms to deflect the strikes. A backflip kick trailing flames caught Pyrrha in the chin, throwing her upwards and away; she threw her weapons mid-air to distract the Maiden then dove at her, dragging Cinder down into a tackle.

When they landed, Pyrrha found herself behind Cinder. She called to her sword from across the room and tried to cut Cinder's throat with it, but Cinder managed to catch it and hold it at bay.

A contest of strength ensued. Cinder tried to push her up and away, but Pyrrha instead rose with the movement to her feet. Smoke began to rise from her weapon where Cinder gripped it.

The Grimm dragon's roar caught her attention, and she glanced to the window; it was flying straight at them, its jaws outstretched. Her eyes widened in shock.

Was it _helping_ Cinder?

Moments before it reached the tower, it jolted, giving in a pained cry, and lost control, careening through the side of the building. Pyrrha felt her sword break in her hands, and an elbow slammed into her midriff, knocking her away.

/-/

"Go! Now!" Gough called. Artorias cut off an Alpha's claw and impaled the beast on his sword before it could reach Gough, while Ruby and Weiss dashed closer to the tower.

Rubble fell from its peak, and the dragon began its clumsy freefall, desperately flapping its remaining good wing to right itself. It succeeded before it hit the ground, and began to gain altitude once more. Gough loosed another arrow; this one missed the wing, but struck it in the chest. Again, the dragon screamed, doing a lap of the tower so that it came around to face them, its eyes glaring murder at Gough.

It opened its mouth and smoke billowed out, rising above it to hide the moon. Then the smoke-cloud turned and rushed them, and Artorias realised that it wasn't smoke at all.

They were Nevermores.

"Gough!" he roared. "Move!"

Artorias leapt in front of him, shield expanding his shield—but Gough was tall, his upper body exposed, and he was forced to weather the brunt of the storm. Artorias swore and collapsed his shield, instead drawing his dagger to slash wildly at the air thick with feathers. Every swing cleaved dozens. With a start, he realised that they weren't going for him.

All they wanted was Gough.

He felt rather than heard Gough's aura shatter.

Gough grunted in pain.

Then he began to scream.

"Gough!" Artorias roared. He swung one more time, then grabbed a fistful of dust from his pouch and infused it all with aura to toss it in the air. Hot and cold air fought for dominance around them, culminating in a crackling explosion that scorched Artorias' shirt and blasted the Nevermores, many dissipating into smoke before they could even hit the ground.

"Gough?" The giant man was kneeling on the ground, his head hanging low against his chest. Blood dripped from his face. "Gough!"

Artorias knelt down next to him and lifted his chin.

Gough's empty eye sockets looked back at him.

"I… I can't see," Gough said quietly.

"I'm here, Gough. I'm here. Stay still—I'll cover you!" He vaulted over Gough's head to strike down a pair of Creeps that were rushing the archer, then returned to Gough, laying an arm on his shoulder. He flinched at the contact. "You're going to be alright, yeah? Stay with me. You're gonna be fine."

"I can't _see!"_ He was panicking now, that much was clear. He tried to push himself to his feet, but Artorias kept him down.

A cry of pain brought Artorias' attention upwards. White glyphs lit the side of the tower, and a red figure leapt towards them. The Grimm dragon still flew, though it was more of a glide down to the ground as it struggled with its crippled wing. It landed atop the ruins of the cafeteria, its glowing eyes fixed on Gough.

"Gough, listen to me," Artorias said quietly. He picked up the bow where it had fallen by Gough's side and pressed it into his hands. "I need you to make one last shot for me, alright?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't—I didn't mean to be angry. I don't like being angry. Don't leave me, please…"

"I'll guide your aim." Artorias swallowed the lump in his throat. "You'll be fine," he lied. "You hear me? You'll be fine." He hooked one arm around Gough and helped him, stumbling, to his feet.

The dragon stalked closer, its claws digging into the paved ground.

"Come on, Gough. You can do this. I know you can."

Gough breathed deeply, his chest shuddering—then nodded. Practiced hands reached for an arrow, fumbling only a little with the quiver. He swayed on his feet, but Artorias reached up to steady him by the shoulders, and he planted the bottom of his bow in the ground.

The ground shook with every step as the dragon came closer.

"Up. A little to the left. Can you hear it?"

"I can hear it."

"It's coming for us. You can do this."

Gough breathed in, then held it.

The dragon opened its mouth and roared-

Gough's aim twitched a little to the right, then he loosed the arrow.

It struck the dragon's eye. Its vicious roar turned into a pained shriek, and that into a whimper; it collapsed on its front claws and slid along the ground, halting mere metres away, then moved no more. Blood spurted from the wreck of its face, and its tongue lolled towards them.

Then it began to ooze black smoke.

Gough's legs gave out from under him, and he fell to the ground. He did not see the silver light that burst from the tower, illuminating the night sky.

/-/

 _It's alright. I gotcha kiddo. I got ya._

/-/

Ciaran made her way up the road towards Vale General Hospital, where the safe zone had been set up. Stained with Grimm blood and exhausted beyond belief, she could say—at the very least—that it was over.

But at what cost?

The hospital's carpark had been cleared to form a safe zone, with some of the streets barricaded against the Grimm. Spare beds had been rolled out and placed against the hospital wall to accommodate the many people in need of medical attention. Towards the edge of the carpark, near the makeshift landing zone, were rows of bodies covered in white sheets.

Many had died. Mostly civilians from the early fighting, before the Huntsmen and Huntresses had reached the city.

Scrawled across the ground of this entrance, in chalk—or perhaps soapstone—was a message. _Don't give up._

She stared at it dumbly, too tired to form an opinion.

A ship descended to the landing zone, and she made her way over to it. Somebody had to direct the civilians.

"We need a doctor!" A man in a short red cape came down the boarding ramp, holding a stretcher behind him. Holding the other end was Weiss, and atop it was Ruby, unconscious but apparently unwounded. "And a much larger stretcher," the man in the red cape continued.

Ciaran's eyes widened and she rushed over, beckoning for Doctor Yulva. "What happened to her?" Ciaran asked.

"She's fine," said the man in the red cape. "Just knocked out. She'll come 'round. We need to get big guy some help though."

"Big guy…?"

She glanced back into the Bullhead. Artorias knelt next to a familiar figure.

"Follow me. There should be something near the east entrance." Doctor Yulva said.

Artorias nodded wordlessly.

Ciaran cautiously entered the Bullhead. Blood—red, not black—was splattered and smeared on the floor.

And Gough had no eyes.

It took a moment for that to register in her mind. He had no eyes. They were gone; all that remained were curtains of skin across empty, gaping holes.

She staggered backwards out of the Bullhead, clutching her mouth, and promptly threw up on the ground.

Artorias returned, his head downcast and his shoulders slumped, a large stretcher held behind him. "Help us carry him," he said, his voice monotone.

Ciaran shook her head, feeling bile rise in her throat once more.

Doctor Yulva placed a concerned hand on her shoulder, then followed Artorias up the ramp. They came back down not long after, Yulva struggling with the weight. Ciaran averted her eyes and took one of the handles from her. "This way," Yulva directed, pointing towards the line of beds.

They set Gough down as gently as they could. Yulva shooed them away so that she could work. Ciaran began to leave, too tired to argue, but Artorias stayed behind for a moment, holding her back.

"Where's Gil?" he asked the doctor.

"Who?"

"Gilderoy Ornstein. Red hair. Wounded legs and torso."

"Ah," Yulva said. "The Vytal finalist? Doctor Bool was taking care of him." She gestured towards a tired man with grey hair and a grey sweater-vest. "Now go. I need to work."

Artorias nodded and began to pick his way over to Doctor Bool, Ciaran in tow.

"Slow down, Arty," Ciaran said. "It's late. We've been fighting all night. We need to rest."

He didn't respond.

"Where's Gil?" he asked as they reached the other doctor. "Gilderoy Ornstein. Red hair. Vytal finalist."

Doctor Bool turned around from his patient to face them. "I'm a little busy at the-"

"Where is he?"

The doctor sighed. "He didn't make it."

Ciaran felt her heart skip a beat.

"Show me," Artorias growled.

"I don't have time, I-"

Artorias snarled and turned, running towards the bodies beneath white sheets. "Artorias!" Ciaran called.

He didn't listen.

/-/

"At least nothing bad happened," the pilot responded, glancing back at the hold of the dropship. Doctor Polendina stood over a stretcher on the floor, its occupant concealed by a white sheet.

The body twitched.

The pilot shuddered and turned back to focus on flying. "The General'd probably have me shot if I let something bad happen to you. You won't report this little detour to him, will you?"

"It was at my request. You have nothing to worry about," Doctor Polendina responded.

"Please—I'd rather not take that particular risk."

There was a slight pause. Then, Doctor Polendina said, "Of course."

* * *

 **Whew.**

 **I anticipate a question along the lines of 'why change all that stuff with Pyrrha and Jaune if it still ends the same way?' And I have an answer to it. By having Jaune initiate the kiss, it gives him agency (or at least the illusion of agency), ultimately leading to more juicy development for Jaune. Though in reality it doesn't _make_ him any more responsible for Pyrrha's death, he'll _feel_ more responsible.**

 **Which leads to the question: 'why doesn't Pyrrha listen to Jaune, given the changes in their relationship from canon?'** **The truth is that Pyrrha doesn't _want_ to be happy. In canon, she says that she can't form meaningful connections with anyone except Jaune because everybody else idolises her, but yet she seems to get along fine with Team RWBY and the rest of JNPR (except for _one_ instance with Weiss in early Volume 1). It's either a problem with RWBY telling instead of showing (it wouldn't be the first time), or it's a hint that Pyrrha's problems go deeper than her celebrity status. I think she _looks_ for reasons to not be happy. In this case, it's because being happy and fulfilling her 'destiny' are contradictory goals, nevermind that her destiny is, by that point, self-appointed.**

 **All of that being said, I did toy with the idea of Jaune dying instead of Pyrrha. The problem is that Pyrrha is too damn OP. Without a reason to hold back with her semblance, she'd trivialise every fight against someone with metal weaponry-Tyrian, Adam, Raven, Vernal, Mercury, and Emerald all qualify. That's a lot of villains whom Pyrrha can stomp. If I'd kept her alive beyond this point, I'd have just killed her later (I probably would have used Hazel for a lethal Worf-effect), which would have been a real shame.**

 **Oh, Gough. Despite being raised by Smough in Vacuo, he's lived a shockingly sheltered life so far. He's never learned how to handle his emotions. He never _needed_ to learn how to handle his emotions. Still, if you're gonna go blind, you can at least do it like a badass and take out Kevin at the same time.**

 **Now, what else happened worth talking about? Nothing major, right...?**

 **The next chapter'll be a bit of a wind-down chapter, as well as setting the stage for future events, after which I'll be taking a break to work on _Special Beings._ Excuse me while I go get drunk off my face. Happy New Year.**

 **Next chapter - January 5th.**


	40. Chapter 39: The End of the Beginning

**Long AN at the bottom. But TLDR for those who don't read it: Thank you to everybody who has read up to this point. I've invested a lot of time and effort into this, and it honestly means so much that people have been enjoying it.**

 **This'll be the last chapter I post for this fic for a while, but I'll be writing _Special Beings Have Special Souls_ in the meantime.**

 **To the guest reviewer: yes. Sif will appear. Later.**

* * *

"Don't wait for me. There's somebody I need to talk to."

Weiss narrowed her eyes and cocked her head. Blake looked back at her coolly, maintaining her composure.

After a moment, Weiss nodded. "I'll see you there," she said, departing through the hospital doors.

Blake breathed a sigh of relief and, after waiting for Weiss to turn down a side street, walked back through the hospital, searching for a certain room. The nurse who'd taken care of her while her wound had healed nodded politely as she passed. Blake gave a faint half-smile and continued onwards.

Eventually she came to the door she sought. She knocked once.

"Come in."

She pushed the door open. Inside, Gough sat upright in his hospital bed, a black blindfold covering his ruined eye sockets. There was a bowl in his lap apparently intended to collect the wood shavings from his carving, though instead most were landing on the sheets around it. Ciaran sat by the bed, one arm resting on his leg through the sheets. She placed a book on the trolley at the foot of the bed as Blake entered.

"It's Blake," Ciaran said.

"Ah. I'd heard you were injured. You have recovered?"

 _Better than you have_ , Blake thought sadly. The silence was filled by the sound of his knife scraping over the wood. "Yes," Blake said. "I have." She glanced to Ciaran. "Would you mind giving us the room?"

Ciaran glanced to Gough for confirmation, and Blake could just about pinpoint the moment she realised that Gough couldn't see her. "Gough?"

"Mm-hmm."

Ciaran patted his leg, then stood. "Sit with him," she murmured as she passed by Blake. "He needs physical contact." Blake nodded. The door shut behind Ciaran.

Blake approached the massive man, sitting where Ciaran had been.

As much as she understood what Ciaran meant, it felt strangely too personal to initiate physical contact. Blake's hands hovered awkwardly by Gough's leg for a moment, then withdrew. Gough didn't seem to be bothered.

"You're quiet," Gough said after some time. "Thank you."

"…you're welcome?"

"I can feel alone without actually _being_ alone," he said. "It's like… a safety net, I suppose."

"Do you want to be alone?" Blake asked.

"I don't know," he said. "I fear to openly indulge in self-pity. But it's…" he trailed off, sighing. "It's very tempting."

They sat in comfortable silence for a while longer. Blake watched Gough's hands as he carved. They were large, obscuring the wood from her sight, and oftentimes he would roll it between his palms. She imagined he was getting a feel for the carving's shape.

"I don't imagine you asked for the room without a reason," Gough said at last.

"No. I didn't." Blake sighed and ran a hand through her hair, her ears automatically moving aside. She felt naked without her bow, but it had been a torn, bloodstained rag by the end of the battle, and she hadn't had a chance yet to get another. "I met somebody in the battle," she said. "Someone called Smough Iris."

The wooden handle of Gough's knife cracked in his grip, a hairline fracture running alone the grain.

"Gough?"

"How did he die?"

"He saved my life."

Gough resumed whittling, taking deep breaths as he did so.

"I was cornered by a member of the White Fang. A dangerous one. I was wounded. Smough held him off so I could run."

"Was it quick?"

Blake pursed her lips and shook her head before realising that he wouldn't see it. "I don't think so," she said. "Adam wouldn't want it to be quick."

"Adam?"

Blake shifted uncomfortably in her chair. "I thought you deserved to hear it from me before I left."

"Don't leave!" His voice went up almost an octave, and Blake heard him sniffle.

She wondered if he could still cry.

"I don't know if I can do this," he said. "Smough and- and Gilderoy…" he trailed off, hanging his head. "I thought I could do this. That I could get better. Somehow." His chest shuddered, and his hand shot out for her, leaving the burl of wood in his lap. He flailed around, reaching for her, and Blake grabbed his wrist. He clung to her arm, his hand like a vice. "I'll never hunt again. I know that. But I don't know if I can… I can't just _go on._ They're gone."

"It gets easier," Blake said, her voice hollow.

"I'm not sure I want it to."

"They'd want it to."

She'd seen people like this before. In the White Fang, before she'd left Adam behind atop the train. This was all she knew to say. They'd want you to move forward. Not look back.

And soon she'd leave it all behind. Home beckoned.

"Maybe," Gough said quietly. He let go of her arm. "Smough is… selfish. I'm not blind to it." He chuckled, though his heart wasn't in it. "You knew this Adam."

It was more a statement then a question, but Blake still answered it. "Yes."

"And you want to walk away."

Blake bit her lip.

Gough picked up the bowl of wood shavings, his hands fumbling with it, and held it out for her to take. She placed it down on the bedside table, then took the carving as he offered it to her.

It was of a face, that much was clear, but its proportions were all twisted and _wrong_. Its eyes were hollow and gaunt and flowed down seamlessly into its cheeks. Or perhaps those were supposed to be eyebrows, merging with hair and from there merging into a beard. Its mouth was little more than a meeting of two curves in a point, but Blake got the strange impression that it was open in a wordless scream.

"Help me," Gough said, slowly lowering his legs from the side of the bed. After a moment's hesitation, Blake stood and moved to his side, helping him out of the bed. For a second, he leaned heavily on her, but then he straightened, and Blake guided him towards the door.

"Tell me about Adam," he said.

/-/

"Don't wait for me. There's somebody I need to talk to."

That's what Blake had said, and though Weiss had narrowed her eyes and cocked her head, she'd obliged the girl. That had been back at the hospital.

Still, Weiss thought as she stepped off the ferry to Patch, it was probably for the best. She had somebody of her own she needed to talk to. Not necessarily _before_ they visited Yang and Ruby—just when she was alone.

And she was alone now.

She set off down the street from the jetty. The town on Patch's coast wasn't very large, and it took her only a few minutes to reach its edge, where the road split in two; one was paved and led to Signal Academy and the landing pads; the other was a dirt road that led to a mess of paths through the woods. One of those paths led to Ruby and Yang's house.

She chose the dirt path, but left it behind after a few minutes to find solitude in the woods. Patch was rather peaceful compared to the rest of Remnant. The chances of her finding any Grimm were slim, and even if she did, she was sure she'd be able to handle it. If not her, then…

Well, then the knight could do it for her.

She came across a clearing and, with a stick, drew a line in the dirt to indicate where she'd come from—just in case she lost the road—then drew Myrtenaster. She tapped into her aura, feeling it surge through her weapon into the ground, and a glyph lit up in front of her.

"Greetings, scion." Last time, his voice had echoed strangely in the empty air, but now it sounded as normal as any other. The knight, though Weiss had intended to summon him at a 'normal' size (and being on his knees besides) dwarfed her by at least a foot. He planted his sword point-down in the dirt and leaned on it like a staff, looming over her. "We are alone?"

"Unless you mind your brother listening in," Weiss quipped.

"No." The speaker's arm shimmered into sight as he tightened his grip around the knight's shoulder, light twinkling up his arm until he was revealed to her in full. He was so thin that she could almost see his bones through his arms. "I do not ever recall being slain by the likes of you. How is it you called upon us?"

"Your brother's armour was animated by a Geist. I killed the Geist, but when I tried to summon it, I got you instead," Weiss explained.

"A… Geist?"

"You don't know what a Geist is?" Weiss asked, eyebrow raised. "It's a variant of Grimm that can possess objects."

"Ah. In my time we called them Mimics. Time weaves new names from the fabric of the old. My own was Lothric. Lorian was my brother's." Lorian nodded once, slowly. "Those names, at least, should have remained the same, if they remain at all."

"Weiss Schnee," Weiss responded.

Lothric was silent for a moment, and Weiss had the uncomfortable sense that his hidden eyes were appraising her from beneath his hood. "The man named Oz. He was close when last we spoke. Where is he now?"

"…Ozpin?"

"Perhaps. He wears names like cloaks. But Oz is his oldest."

Weiss swallowed the lump in her throat. "He was killed." That was what Jaune had said. The fact that nobody had heard from Ozpin since the Fall of Beacon backed it up.

Lothric paused. Lorian shifted his weight backwards. "Death has no hold over him," Lothric said. "This is a setback, but he would have to wait anyway."

Weiss' brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"You, I assume, are mortal, as were my brother and I. Oz is not," Lothric said. "Where was he 'killed'? Where-"

"Slow down. Ozpin is _immortal?_ "

"In a sense. He is not deathless, but his soul seeks out a new host with every end he meets. Where are his quarters?"

"Don't toy with me," Weiss said. Her grip tightened around Myrtenaster. "People are still grieving. They will be for a long time."

Beneath his hood, the edges of Lothric's mouth twitched upwards in a wry smile. "And you're not and won't be, I'm sure. You need not believe me yet anyway," he said with a dismissive wave. "There is an object that should have been in Oz's possession—and if it weren't, he would have had some way to locate it." He waved his hand and a feathery glyph appeared. From it, he pulled a spectral poppet. "Finding this is our first order of business."

"I haven't agreed to any of this."

"No," Lothric said, "you have not." Lorian shifted his weight onto his right knee and rolled his shoulders, jolting Lothric a little. "This is the first of three tasks. Assist us, and we swear we will aid you whenever you call on us."

"Servitude?" Weiss raised an eyebrow. "I thought you were hoping to avoid that." They'd been so adamantly against it that they'd tried to _kill_ her, even. They didn't want to be summoned, that much was clear.

"For one lifetime. _Your_ lifetime, however long or short that might be. It is all we can offer, and a price we are willing to pay."

Weiss narrowed her eyes. She still wasn't sure what it was she was getting into. "Why?" she asked. "What else do you want me to do? What 'business' do you have with… with Ozpin?"

"Does it matter?" Lothric asked, his voice tired. "You've struggled to believe me thus far. I doubt anything else I say will change that. The reason shouldn't matter, not to you. We have offered a lifetime of unyielding loyalty. Is that not enough?"

"Tell me the truth." Unbidden, a snowflake glyph burst into being beneath her, slowly rotating on the ground. "I command you." She reached out with her semblance to compel Lothric as Winter might compel a summoned Beowolf, wrapping her will around Lothric's own. But she didn't imagine Grimm had a will to resist. Lothric did, and it felt like a grave, still and silent and endlessly patient… stoic.

"Do not test me!" Lorian reared up as best he could, wrenching his blade from the ground and holding it menacingly; Lothric swept his arm towards her, trailing spectral feathers. The glyph beneath her flickered, but did not falter. His arm jolted backwards, carrying Lorian into a backwards lean, his balance thrown.

The grave yawned open.

Weiss caught a glimpse of _something_ before Lothric's resolve slammed his mind's gate shut. A painting of a mountain peak. A girl with a white tail. A man holding a sword to his own throat.

Then nothing.

She opened eyes that she didn't even know she'd closed. Lorian loomed over her, kneeling calmly, sword laid across his lap, while Lothric clung to his back, breathing heavily. He raised his hand once more, and spectral feathers floated from his outstretched fingers. "Unless you agree to our offer, do not call on us again," he said. Light began to engulf the pair and, in a flash, they were gone.

Lothric offered her power, but for what? Lies? Half-truths? Mysteries? Weiss shook her head. Perhaps if he'd been more open, more honest, she'd consider it. This was, at the end of the day, a business deal, and she knew better than almost anybody to read the metaphorical fine print before agreeing to anything.

She was, after all, the heiress to the SDC.

Idly, she raised Myrtenaster's tip. A glyph spun into being, and from it she raised a Boarbatusk. It came easily now, when mere weeks ago she'd been unable to conjure even the smallest Nevermore.

If she could summon Grimm, why would she ever need Lothric and Lorian?

She dismissed the Boarbatusk with a flick of her wrist, and to her satisfaction, it obeyed, fading away into glowing blue mist.

/-/

Colour drained from the glass. At its bottom was the face of an old Mistrali man. His eyes were closed.

Lien crossed the bar. "Another."

Colour drained from the glass. At its bottom was the face of a woman with dark hair. Her eyes were closed.

"Another."

"Sorry kid. We're closing for the night."

Different bar. Different night. Same drink. At its bottom was the bloodied face of a little girl. Her eyes were closed.

"Another."

He couldn't find the face he wanted to see. He didn't know if that were good or bad.

 _Ciaran_

 _Team: _WIN_

 _MSG: GOUGH IS AWAKE. WHERE ARE YOU?_

This time the glass is cracked. That's okay. It'll all be okay. _You'll be fine._ There's nothing at its bottom.

"Another."

"I'm cutting you off."

"I need you to pour one last shot for me, alright?"

"Get outta here before I have you thrown out."

Different bar. Different night. Different drink, too. _Even I wouldn't drink that._ Silly bird. Birds don't drink booze anyway.

 _Mum_

 _Team: _ _ _ __

 _MSG: WHERE ARE YOU?_

Same bar. Different night. Back to the old drink. Other one didn't make it.

 _Yang_

 _Team: RWBY_

 _MSG: RUBY'S STILL SLEEPING. BLAKE ARRIVED W/ C AND GOUGH. QROW'S GONE LOOKING FOR YOU._

"Must have been quite the bender for you to end up in a place like this."

It took Artorias a moment to realise that he was being addressed. He finished his drink—noted the silver-haired face that slept in the bottom of the glass—then beckoned the bartender back over.

"Another."

"That's not a good idea."

Artorias looked to the person who'd sat on his left. Winter Schnee looked back at him.

She was disappointed in him. That much was already clear.

Artorias sighed and looked back down at his empty glass. His own reflection stared back at him. "Gil's gone," he said. A new glass was placed before him, and he raised it to his lips.

"So I hear."

"Couldn't find him." Couldn't find the body before he'd been pulled away. He wasn't sure what he'd have done if he _had_ found it.

"You're certainly not going to find him here."

"Not gonna find him out there either." Artorias slipped some cash across the bar. Before the bartender could collect it, Winter slammed her hand down on it. "Party pooper," Artorias muttered.

After a moment's pause, Winter relented, saying something quietly to the bartender first. "It's been a week," she said. "You need to see your team."

"Even if they can't see me?" He nursed the new glass as it was pushed into his hands.

Winter's nose twitched. She'd either suppressed a wince or smelled something particularly nasty. Probably both.

"I'm leaving for Atlas tomorrow," she said. "I won't be around to pull you out of this hole."

Artorias rolled his eyes and raised his glass.

This drink smelled of cinnamon.

"Dick move," he muttered.

Winter raised her finger and pulled her scroll from her pocket. "I need to take this," she said.

"Don't stop on my account."

She moved away, scroll held to her ear. Artorias caught only brief words of her conversation. "Specialist Schnee speaking… not my problem… airspace… tell him… Patch."

She returned not long after. "I need to go," she said. "And I think you do too."

Artorias didn't respond. He didn't even look at her. But he could feel her eyes boring into the back of his head for a moment longer before she left.

/-/

With the school in ruins, the students of Beacon (those with nowhere else to go) were accommodated in a block of council-built housing. It was a home, Ren supposed.

In a sense.

All the units had been set up in the same way: four beds for four teammates. That alone had made things difficult, especially for Jaune. After the first night, he'd taken to sleeping on the couch instead.

" _The first forays into Beacon Academy began this morning,"_ the news report said. _"Local Huntsmen and Huntresses are optimistic about their ability to have the area cleared by the end of winter. When asked about the continued migration of Grimm into the school grounds, Professor Glynda Goodwitch did not offer any comment. While we admire their enthusiasm, it remains uncertain how long it will be before the school can resume classes."_

Jaune switched off the screen, his face blank. Nora, sitting with him, awkwardly patted him on the shoulder.

There was a knock at the door. "I'll get it," Ren said. Nora sunk back into her seat. Jaune hadn't even moved.

Ren opened the door, revealing Vengarl, a bag under his arm and bags under his eyes.

"Good evening," Vengarl said.

Ren ushered him in. "How much have you heard?"

"I only got back today. I was just in a meeting with the council," Vengarl said, resting his bag against the table. "They didn't tell me much."

"Beacon's in ruins," Jaune said quietly.

"I've at least heard that," Vengarl said. "The broadcast showed it. Grimm in the streets. Atlesian Knights attacking citizens. Then…" he shrugged. "Nothing." He glanced around. "Where is Pyrrha?"

Silence. If it were even possible, Ren thought Jaune's face hardened even further.

"I'm… sorry." He ran a hand through his thin hair and made for a chair, looking to Ren for permission to sit. Ren nodded, and Vengarl lowered himself down. "Tell me everything."

/-/

"I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

Winter Schnee stood firm against her father's gaze. "You have no right," he said coldly. "Let me pass. I _must_ see my daughter!"

She was lucky it was late at night, all things considered. Had it been day, they would have made quite the scene. All of Patch would have seen. As it happened, there was one homeless man on the side of the road glaring at them as he tried to sleep. Nobody else was around.

"Weiss doesn't want to see you," Winter said, blocking the path to the ferry.

"That isn't your decision to make. Step aside. The council has only banned air traffic-"

"I'm not acting on the council's behalf. Weiss does not want to talk to you," she repeated. Her fingers twitched for her sabre. "Return to your ship and fly back to Atlas."

Jacques scowled. "No," he said. "I will wait. My daughter is not safe here. I will not-"

"Father?"

Jacques paused, then turned around. Weiss was coming up the road, Blake at her side. Ciaran and Gough trailed behind a little, Ciaran with an arm around his waist and Gough tapping the ground in front of him with a cane.

"Weiss," he greeted. "I've come to take you home."

Weiss didn't rail against him. She didn't seem angry, or upset, or conflicted. For a moment, Winter feared that Weiss _would_ go with him.

"…why?" Weiss asked.

"Vale is not safe for you. You're heiress to the-"

"I'm safe," Weiss said. "I can take care of myself."

Winter smiled.

"Atlas is pulling its forces out of Vale tomorrow. I will _not_ allow your safety to be threatened by Vale's incompetence."

"She said doesn't want to go with you," Blake said.

"This is a family matter, young lady. I suggest you stay out of it."

Weiss crossed her arms. "Nothing you can say will change my mind."

"What would it do to your mother if you were killed?"

Weiss looked down. "I won't be," she said. "I'm going back to Vale. Are you going to try and stop me?"

Winter stepped around him, leaving the jetty open, but then Jacques moved to block it again. Weiss pursed her lips, then turned around.

"Fine. I'll stay at Yang and Ruby's until you're gone."

Blake left with her. "Weiss!" Jacques called after her. "Don't walk away, Weiss!"

Weiss didn't respond.

"I bet you're _loving_ this!" Jacques seethed, turning to Winter.

She ignored him. She knew it was the best way to make him leave her alone. Instead, she approached Ciaran and Gough. "How are you feeling?" she asked.

"I've been better," Gough said. "The fresh air is good for me."

Winter nodded.

"Have you seen Artorias?" Ciaran asked, her voice low.

Winter bit her lip. "No," she lied. "I'd best be off. I don't imagine we'll see each other for some time. Good luck to both of you."

"Poor choice of words," Gough said.

"…sorry."

Gough shrugged it off, though she could tell that he was being far more nonchalant than he felt. Ciaran guided him towards the ferry.

"Are you going to stop _them_ , too?" Winter asked Jacques.

/-/

Same night.

Artorias longed for home. He swayed on the barstool as he drained the glass. Cinnamon bit at his throat.

"A guy walks down a road. He falls in a hole."

Artorias looked to his right. Qrow Branwen sat next to him, gesturing to the bartender for a drink.

"Where… where're you goin' with this?"

"Walls so steep he can't get out." Qrow drained his glass in one go and gestured for another. "A doctor passes by. The guy shouts out to him. 'Hey. I'm stuck in here. Can ya help me out?' What do you think the doctor does?"

"Uh…" _Doctor, doctor, doctor… Bullhead, dust, Amity._ "Dunno."

"He writes a prescription and throws it in the hole, then moves on. Worthless." Two Qrows drained too glasses. Artorias struggled to bring the man back into focus. "A cleric walks by. 'Brother, I'm stuck. Can you help?' Cleric writes a prayer and throws it in the hole, then walks away.

"A Huntsman walks by. 'Can you help?' The Huntsman clears out the Grimm around the hole. Guy's still stuck." Qrow accepted another glass, but didn't drink. Artorias supposed he felt he'd caught up enough.

"Then, a friend walks by. 'Glyn, it's me. Can you help me out?' The friend jumps in the hole. Our guy says, 'Are you stupid? Now we're both down here!' The friend says, 'Yeah, but I've been down here before and I know the way out.'"

"…you're trying to say something."

"Trying, sure." Qrow sighed and looked down into his glass. "Vengarl contacted me. He's back in town, and we need to plan our next move. You're in no state, clearly." He drank. "Tonight, we drink. Tomorrow, we get our asses in gear. You understand?"

He looked up. Artorias' vision blurred as he tried to look Qrow in the eye. "You've been here before?"

"Oh good, you got the point. Was worried I'd _really_ have to hit you over the head with it."

"Can't get hit over the head," Artorias mumbled. "Aura stops it."

"Sheesh." Qrow drained his glass. "Gotta catch up." The next drink already poured, he raised it towards Artorias. "To Beacon. To Ozpin. To… what's-his-face-redhead and what's-her-face-redhead."

Artorias raised his glass in response.

/-/

"Ugh… Where am I?"

"Drink this and this, and take these pills."

Artorias sat up on the bed he must have crashed on, shielding his eyes from the sunlight peeking through the curtains. He took the first glass offered to him—a green smoothie of some sort—popped the offered pills in his mouth, and drank, one hand holding his pounding head. It tasted terrible.

"…Ren? What happened to-"

"Aah, that's the stuff." Qrow appeared in the doorway, flask in hand.

"Should you really be drinking?" Ren asked.

"It's called hair of the dog. No offence to the canine in the room."

Artorias reached for the mug Ren had put down. The scent of coffee rankled his nose. "No coffee," he said, putting it back down.

"It'll wake you up. Just be sure to drink plenty of wa-"

"No. Coffee."

"…sure."

"Pancakes are ready!" Nora said, coming into the room behind Qrow. Artorias winced at how loud she was.

"Thanks, Nora."

"But then I ate them all, so… wait. No. It was _definitely_ Jauney."

Nobody believed her.

"I'll just…"

"You do that," Qrow said. Nora left the room, closing the door behind her.

"How is she so cheerful?" Artorias groaned.

"It's what she knows," Ren said. "Don't begrudge her it."

"I'll do what I damn well please." He rubbed at his temples, waiting for the pounding to go away. "What happened last night?"

"We drank," Qrow said. "Thought Patch was a bit far to take you. Ended up here. Thanks, by the way."

"Not a problem," Ren said.

"Uh… could you give us the room for a moment?"

Ren nodded. "Sure."

Qrow moved to sit by Artorias, waiting for the door to close behind Ren before speaking. "You had people worried. Don't do that."

"What?"

Qrow reached for the coffee mug that had been offered to Artorias and added a bit of liquor to it before taking a sip. "Had my niece worried for you. Didn't see your team much, but they were pretty worried too." He took another sip. "People like us. We don't grieve well. Everybody grieves, though. Don't make it harder on them. They've already got plenty to worry about."

"…how do _you_ do it?"

"One drink at a time. Not all at once." On that note, he drank from the mug, then stood, heading for the door. "We're meeting Vengarl in an hour. He knows a place we can talk in private, plan our next move. Like, _serious_ private. Not just 'close the door' private. Sober up as best you can. And gods, take a shower."

/-/

"I don't want excuses, Raime. I want results."

Salem regarded the man in question. He leaned heavily on a staff to support his wounded leg.

"But Sulyvahn-"

"If you could not handle both Sulyvahn and the Summer Maiden at once, you should not have tried. It's fortunate that Cinder was more capable, or Vale could have been a complete waste of our time." Cinder was preening under the praise, Salem was sure. Just not outwardly—it was difficult for the poor girl to show any emotion beyond 'pained' right now. "I had eyes on Sulyvahn. Do not risk your missions for such things again." As she had eyes on all of them, really. The same pair of eyes. But they didn't need to know that.

Cinder nodded to her green-haired subordinate—Emerald, if Salem recalled correctly. After a series of brief, pained whispers, the girl turned to address Salem, and Cinder drew forth an object from her sleeve.

"Sulyvahn was looking for this," Emerald said. "We don't know why."

Salem gingerly took the doll.

"I do," she said. "You've done well, Cinder." She turned to Raime. "I trust you're competent enough to recall Tyrian and Arthur," she said. Raime scowled, but nodded and turned to leave. Cinder, Emerald, and Mercury made to follow. "Stay," Salem directed.

They stayed.

Once Raime passed through the great doors leading out of the hall, Salem spoke again. "The Grimm dragon. You're certain it is dead?"

Cinder nodded.

"The school's still a ruin," Emerald said.

"So you've said," Salem said dryly. Was the girl trying to impress her? "What of the city?"

Mercury looked away sheepishly. Emerald leaned closer to Cinder as she whispered something.

"It still stands."

They seemed to think that it was a bad thing. It wouldn't have _bothered_ her particularly if the city had fallen, but as a matter of preference? She'd prefer to leave it intact.

"Good. You may go. Send in the Seer."

They departed, Cinder leaning heavily on Emerald. It would be a while before she'd recover. At least her people were loyal enough to help her in her time of need.

The Grimm that floated in after they departed was a bulbous, monstrous thing, with tentacles hanging from its underside and its skin spread so thin it was near transparent. Salem reached out for it. She longed for the days when a mere _thought_ would compel the Grimm to obey.

But she still had power over them.

"Show me Patches," she said.

The image beneath the Seer's skin shifted. When it cleared, it showed an empty room.

He was late.

* * *

 **For a regular 'this was the chapter' AN... I cut down _so heavily_ on the Lothric and Lorian stuff. It was hard to nail his voice as well, given that I have maybe two lines of dialogue to go off from the game. One draft had Weiss experiencing a full flashback conversation between Lothric, Oz, Salem, and Patches. It was...**

 **It was okay. By itself. But it didn't really fit the chapter. I cut that out and trimmed out the fat around it, and Lothric suddenly felt like a much more coherent character, so I'm glad it got cut. The scene might make it into an omake. Dunno.**

 **Team RWBY remains together going into Volume 4, but Team JNPR and Team GWIN are in shambles. Speaking of things that got cut: Vengarl's meeting with the council (actually important things happened! But 'important' in the way that they'll only really be interesting in retrospect) and the meeting between Vengarl, Qrow, and Artorias to plan ahead. That one just didn't feel like a natural conversation, no matter how I spun it, and besides-all they'll do is act out the decisions they make in that discussion.**

* * *

 **Moving on...** **Again: thank you so much to everyone who's read this far. Over two hundred thousand words, thirty-nine chapters, and a prologue that probably should have just been called 'Chapter 1' but I can't be bothered changing. Thank you for sticking it out. It's been a wild ride.** (As an aside: that one reviewer who apparently read all of this instead of sleeping when they had obligations the next day? I appreciate your dedication, but get some damn sleep lol)

 **I know it hasn't been perfect. Pacing's had its issues. A certain character fell far short of the mark. Please indulge me to talk at length about the characters I've enjoyed writing the most, the characters who surprised me, the characters I fucked up... well, except for any characters who are still alive and it would be _spoilery_ to talk about, of course.**

 **Starting with Lautrec.**

 **That one falls under 'fuckup'.**

 **Now, just as a disclaimer: I'm a solid believer in that whole 'death of the author' thing and if anybody gleaned a different reading from the text to my authorial intent, _even if this AN is 'word of god' it shouldn't invalidate your interpretation._ That being said, this _is_ the direction I intended for things to go before I chickened out.**

 **Lautrec was intended to be Anastacia's brother. He was aware of her Maiden powers, and has hated her since their family died because she did nothing to stop it. Anastacia's love for her brother (despite the whole murder thing) combined with the act of murder itself and with the rules of Maiden inheritance was intended to be the catalyst for the whole weird 'soul-binding' thing. At this point, though, it's more of a plot device that I doubt I'll have a good in-universe reason or opportunity to explain.**

 **So why did I chicken out on Lautrec? Because, even though I said I'm willing to play loose with the lore, that one felt a little... _too_ loose. But by that point I'd already introduced him. Things spiralled out of control from there, because rather than taking a week's break to iron it out I just kept writing. I decided to go with Lautrec not knowing about the Maidens and being confused by the voice in his head, and then that messed with the (somewhat more lore-suitable) idea that he had a soul-stealing semblance and was just out to hunt Maidens for their power. Like I've said: OP semblances are boring for heroes, but put them on the right villain and it really spices things up.**

 **In the end, I sidelined him and used him as a walking (not that he did much of that) MacGuffin. And, by sidelining him I ended up sidelining Doctor Polendina (and kinda Penny, by extension, though I tried to fit her into as many scenes as I could), Roman Torchwick, and Ironwood (a little less than the others, but still).**

 **Still, Lautrec died when he was supposed to. So at least that went right.**

 **Who's next? Lapp. Definitely Lapp. This one I wouldn't call a fuckup.**

 **I first introduced Patches _before_ the Ringed City came out, but once I played through Lapp's storyline I knew I had to bring him back. I wanted to bring him back _anyway_ , of course, just in a more comedic role. Post-Ringed City, he's one of the major players, on par with the likes of Oz and Salem and Gwyn themselves. He's just quieter about it. Much like Sulyvahn, I still haven't done a Patches PoV scene - though I _did_ almost do it about... twice. Both times I cut it because it showed how he knew something he shouldn't know. Half the fun of Patches is not knowing how he finds things out. 'What crazy shenanigans did he get into? Who'd he kick into a hole for _that_ info? Who knows!'**

 **Well, _I_ know, and generally I'd hint at it, but rarely outright said it.**

 **Sulyvahn next. Mixed feelings, but overall I'm happy with how he turned out.**

 **So, I've said before that the _first_ idea for Sulyvahn was that he'd be part of a 'buddy-cop' thing with Raime (like 'Sun and Neptune: Junior Detectives'... if they were working for Salem). I think I also said that I gave up on that idea before it picked up too much steam (thank fuck). However, the line that first introduces Sulyvahn wasn't planned at all: for those who don't remember, Winter mentions him off-handedly to Artorias, and he's like 'oh, the religious guy?'**

 **Yeah. That wasn't intended. I didn't have a plan for him yet. I was writing that conversation and thought, 'wouldn't it be cool if Sulyvahn were an Atlesian councilman and also religious?'**

 **The whole way through writing the rest of that chapter, I had ideas whirling through my head for Sulyvahn. The first scene I wrote with him was Sulyvahn vs Ozpin. The first draft didn't have Vendrick, nor Gwyn vs TNK, but it had a pretty cool (imo) speech from Ozpin/Lucatiel/TNK about death and power. I think I have that saved still. Possible omake?**

 **Now it's Smough's turn. I... really don't _know_ how I feel about Smough.**

 **He was difficult. That much I can say for sure. I don't know how the hell people act in a relationship, gay or otherwise, so it was probably a bit ambitious of me to take Gilderoy, all-work-some-play team leader and Smough, dysfunctional mild-racist and ship them. I'm pretty sure there was only one example of actual intimate contact that wasn't implied to happen 'off-screen' (a peck on the lips? Or was it a cheek).**

 **Ah well.**

 **The Smough/Big Hat Logan apprenticeship (his arc over the Vytal Festival) was intended to show that Smough's determined. Headstrong. But also insecure. He's even looking for Artorias' signature not because it'll get him the apprenticeship (this was after Octavia refused to sign) - he's doing it for validation _._ I wanted his sacrifice to be a sort of 'Well, he's a Huntsman anyway,' moment. He's not treating it as a title he needs to gain, he's just doing his job. ****Does it make him a hero? To Blake, yes. But that's only because Blake doesn't know him. Gough's confused, because he _knows_ that what Smough would actually want after his death is for people to mourn him in a manner generally considered unhealthy; to get angry from their grief, to act out, to _show that they cared_ , because he wants that validation; because Smough, as Gough put it, is selfish.**

 **Thing is, Smough would want that from everyone _except_ Gough. He'd even want it from Gil. But not Gough.**

 **For all of that, Smough has been one of the most fun characters to write. He challenged me in ways that no other character has. RIP Smough.**

 **If there are any other characters you'd like me to elaborate on, feel free to drop a review or shoot me a PM. If it's not spoiler territory, I'll talk about it.**

* * *

 **So, what happens next? As I said, this is the last chapter of _TFI_ for a while, as I'll be writing _Special Beings._ But how long is 'a while'?**

 **...maybe six months? I don't know. Despite the scope, I intend for _Special Beings_ to be a shorter fic - probably fewer than thirty chapters. At a chapter a week, with a few breaks when real life gets in the way, six months seems like a reasonable estimate for it. But then again, it's also going to be a much harder fic to write. I don't have canon to use as training wheels like I do for _TFI_. It'll take more time to write each individual arc.**

 **However, that doesn't mean I'll be leaving the characters of _TFI_ alone in that time. I didn't write an omake for Chapter 1 of _Special Beings_ because the first chapter should sit as 'on its own' as possible, but I'll write omakes for future chapters. I mean, if people hate them then I'll stop, but hey, why not? It's fun.**

 **When am I getting started on _Special Beings?_ I'm gonna take the next week off, so _Special Beings Have Special Souls_ updates January 19th.**


	41. Chapter 40: Journeys

**Well, this is long overdue. There'll be a more detailed AN at the end, but TLDR: I'm coming back to TFI early, and I don't know what I'll do with _Special Beings._**

* * *

" _No, Arty. Daddy's going away now," Morgan said. Arthur Quill looked up at her, standing at the other end of the hall. Her arms were crossed, and her mouth was set in a frown. How long had it been like that? Arthur wasn't sure._

" _Where?" Little Artorias looked up at him._

 _Arthur's voice caught in his throat. "Far," he croaked out. He coughed lightly, trying to collect his thoughts. North. Oolacile. A new life._

 _His eyes flickered up to Morgan one last time. Her expression did not soften, but she nodded once._

 _Arthur knelt down._

" _I need to go away now," he said, taking his son's hands in his own. "I don't know when I'll see you again."_

" _Why?"_

" _Because I'm the problem."_

 _Artorias cocked his head. "What problem?"_

" _I- your mother and I can't be together. And I can't be with you."_

" _I don't understand."_

" _I know." Arthur sighed. "I'm not good for anybody, alright? I'm… broken. And I don't want to break you too. I need you to understand that. This is for-"_

Oscar Pine opened his eyes. Golden sunlight streamed in through the window and, pushing himself upright to look outside, the sky was purple and orange and blue: the colours of dawn.

/-/

" _You have arrived,"_ came the robotic voice. The elevator doors glided open, and General James Ironwood strode into the gloomy halls beneath Atlas. A painted sign going on a century old informed him that he was in _Alsius R &D: Aviation Wing._

Not that it was used for aviation anymore.

Ironwood stepped up to the rather more modern door ahead of him, raised a fist, and knocked firmly. "Doctor Polendina!"

"Not now!" came the reply. "It's not ready."

The General wanted to be sympathetic. The man had lost his daughter. Had it been a more peaceful time, he _would_ have been more sympathetic. But then, had it been a more peaceful time, Penny would likely be alive. "Come out _now_ , Doctor, or I'm coming in."

"No!" A clatter of tools. "You'll contaminate—fine!"

A moment of silence, followed by approaching footsteps. Not long afterwards, the door slid open and the Doctor emerged, peeling off surgical gloves stained with blood. "How can I help you, _General_?" His voice was barbed, more so than Ironwood could ever remember hearing it. He set his indignation (rightful as it was) aside.

"You're neglecting your assignment, Doctor Polendina."

"And I need-" Doctor Polendina cut himself off to take a deep breath. "Put somebody else on the Vordt autopsy. General—James—I'm begging you. I need to do this."

"This is your area of expertise, Polendina. His soul isn't right. You told me yourself. Who else-"

"I don't know." Doctor Polendina hung his head. "And I don't care. Please, James."

The General's expression softened. "You can't bring her back, Geppetto."

"I know what I'm doing!" the Doctor snarled, his head snapping upwards. He came to his senses a moment later. "Sorry. I'm sorry. But I need this. A month. Give me a month."

"I can't do that, Doctor. I can't afford that time." James sighed. "Two weeks."

Doctor Polendina breathed a heavy sigh of relief. "Thank you."

/-/

Artorias stepped out onto the porch of the Xiao-Long-Rose household and breathed in the morning air. "Thanks for letting me crash here."

"Not a problem," said Tai. "Any friend of my girls is welcome to stay any time." He seemed tired—exhausted, even, with dark circles under his eyes, his beard growing unruly across his chin and his hair dishevelled—but the sentiment seemed honest.

Artorias turned away and looked up the path. Fog oozed between the trees, spilling onto the road, its edges illuminated faintly by the sun peaking over the horizon. "I'd best be off." His flight back to Vacuo was leaving soon, from the Signal Airfield. Gough and Ciaran had left on the first evac ship, a week ago. It was about time he joined them.

"Take care, kid."

He was hardly a hundred feet up the path when he heard footsteps behind him. He turned to see Yang push through the fog.

"Already miss me?"

"I already have a dog, and he's better trained, thank you very much," Yang said, smirking. "I thought I'd walk you though."

"Y'know, some of that's alright, but all of it together? That's kinda racist."

"You don't mind." She said it as more of a statement than a question, but he didn't miss her eyes darting over to him in questioningly.

Artorias shrugged and set off down the path again. "Guess I don't."

"See? Look at us: we solved racism forever." She gave a whimsical smile. "If only… hey, do you know if Sun's left for Mistral yet? Blake was asking."

"No idea," Artorias said. "Haven't seen him since the fall."

"Hmm. I suppose not."

Artorias slowed and glanced sidelong at Yang. "Meaning…?"

"Qrow mentioned it.

A blink of surprise. A blur of faces and glass and wooden bartops flashed through Artorias' mind. "Oh."

"It's not my business. But your team needed you. I don't know if I'd forgive you, in his position."

In _Gough's_ position, he realised. "It doesn't matter," Artorias said, shaking his head. "Gough will forgive me, even though he shouldn't."

Something in his voice attracted a look from Yang that tore through him: she pitied him, if only for a moment. Perhaps it was the vitriol. Perhaps it was the anger. Artorias averted his gaze.

"You really do h-"

"What are you going to do?" Artorias said, cutting her off. "Instead of Beacon, I mean."

Yang regarded him coolly for a moment before relenting, looking down at the path before her before responding. "Well, Vengarl offered to take us with Team Juniper," she said. "But we declined. Cinder's trail leads to Haven, see. We're gonna pitch it to Ruby when she wakes up, but… well, it's Ruby, you know? They're gonna follow the damn trail."

Just as Qrow intended. Artorias nodded, then frowned, catching her wording. "And you?"

"I don't know yet. Partway for sure, but…" she trailed off. "I may have other business in Mistral. Or around Mistral. I don't know." She grimaced, then stopped in her tracks. "What's your relationship like with your parents?"

Artorias stopped and turned to face her. "Hmm?"

"Your parents. Mother, father—or two mothers or fathers if you're adopted, that's cool too. Or more than two if they're polyamo-"

"I'm not adopted," Artorias said, waving her off with a smile. "Why do you ask?"

"It's a long story."

Artorias crossed his arms and looked skyward in thought. "Well," he said, "Mum's great. Raised me practically by herself. My father, though, well…"

"Not so great?"

"He left when I was three. I wasn't much younger than you when next I saw him."

"Yeah? How'd that go?"

"I… well…" Artorias trailed off. He hadn't expected to talk this much about it. He hadn't expected to have this conversation at _all_ , to be fair. "Let's just say we haven't spoken since." He chuckled softly at his own private, morbid joke.

Yang nodded thoughtfully, then set off down the path once more. Artorias followed. "Do you regret seeing him?"

"No. Not at all. It gave me… well, not _closure_ , but something. Something valuable to me. I don't know what to call it, but I'd be a different person if I hadn't found him." He scuffed his boot on the dirt road. "Probably a _better_ person, to be fair, but I can't know for sure."

They came to a fork in the road, both paths becoming paved as they went on. Low, squat buildings silhouetted themselves against the morning fog, and, faintly, Artorias heard the faint lull of waves on Patch's shore.

"Thanks," Yang said, coming to a halt. "I… thanks. Be good for your team, you hear me?"

"No promises."

Yang gave a half smile. "Figures."

She set off back down the dirt path back to her house. Artorias watched after her until she disappeared into the fog, then turned to the road to Signal and his way home.

/-/

"Are you alright?"

Jaune's eyes did not leave the distant dark horizon. Before him stretched the ocean, coated by a blanket of fog. "I'm not any worse," he said.

Next to him, Ren leaned against the ship's railing. His watched Jaune thoughtfully. "I see."

"You see?"

"She'd be proud of you."

Jaune slumped against the railing. "I know. I think I know." He sighed. "It doesn't make it easier though, does it? Hell, we're in the same boat."

Ren raised an eyebrow. The waves lapped gently against the ship's hull.

"Oh. Sorry. I didn't- you know what I mean." Jaune let out an awkward, forced bark of laughter and rubbed the back of his head. "Are _you_ alright?"

"As alright as I need to be," said Ren.

Jaune smiled. "Y'know, I still don't know what Ozpin saw in me. You're a better leader than me."

Ren shook his head. "Thank you, but I disagree."

"…care to elaborate?"

"No." Ren shrugged. "Maybe. Do you know what Nora and I did before Beacon?"

Jaune shook his head.

"We never stayed in one place for long. We weren't running from anybody—not always. We just didn't fit. But we got pretty good at running." And he could vividly recall their first flight…

It was learned behaviour. Whenever the world would come crashing down around Ren, he'd take Nora and flee.

"Beacon was going to be our home for four years. We believed it. The old Ren and Nora would have run when that dream was crushed, I think, if you'd been a lesser man. Certainly, we'd have asked you to come with us, but we wouldn't have followed you if you'd chosen a different path. But you're a leader, Jaune. You're _our_ leader." He laid a hand on Jaune's shoulder, and he squeezed it gently. "Truth be told, I don't know why, exactly, but I know I'd follow you to the end."

Jaune blushed despite himself. "Uh… thanks, Ren." His good cheer faded again soon, though, and again he cast his eyes into the fog. "I think she'd be proud of you too."

/-/

His work done (for the morning at least), Oscar Pine returned to the barn, pitchfork in gloved hand. The sun rising at his back cast long shadows in the doorway, and sent waves of soothing warmth through him.

He leaned the pitchfork against some bales of hay towards the back of the barn, then stretched, teasing out both the last dredges of sleepiness and the early soreness of the day so far, then turned, making his way back towards the barn door and beyond, where he knew his aunt would have breakfast ready (or almost ready) for him.

Something strange appeared on the edges of his vision.

He did a double take, noticing the source of the disturbance: a mirror above a washbasin. Looking now, there was nothing out of the ordinary about it. It was cracked and dirtied, sure, but its reflection was true.

Frowning, he made to move away – then saw the woman in the mirror.

Oscar fell back with a startled cry, landing just shy of the pile of hay that could have broken his fall. He scrambled to his feet a moment later, reaching for the pitchfork as a weapon. "Who's there?!" he called.

 _"Sorry about her,"_ came a disembodied voice. It was a man's voice; sophisticated, with an accent that Oscar struggled to place. _"She's left me alone well enough for now, but you and I are not quite the same. You're stuck with her, I'm afraid."_

"You're not much, are you?" This one was a woman's voice, and Oscar turned to face it, raising his pitchfork. She was blond, blue-eyed, in garments of white and blue and gold-embroidered leather. She stepped around Oscar, a sword hoisted on her shoulder, looking him up and down with an appraising eye. "Hands a bit further apart, kid. No power otherwise."

"Now now-"

"A poor weapon doesn't excuse poor form. Come on, kid. Let's see it."

Oscar blinked, clamping his eyes firmly shut before allowing them to open again. The nightmare was still here. "Leave me be!"

"Oh." The woman gestured with her sword, and Oscar's heart skipped a beat. "Probably should have eased him into it, no?"

 _"Not to put this bluntly, but yes, you're absolutely right. My name is Professor Ozpin. How do you feel?"_

* * *

 **A small mess of a chapter to ease me back into it. This lays some of the groundwork for V4-onwards, I think. Team RWBY stays together and goes to Mistral. Team JNPR are taken by Vengarl to a so-far-unknown destination by boat. Artorias rejoins his team in Vacuo. The broad strokes of the meeting between Vengarl, Qrow, and Artorias (that I omitted last chapter) will be revealed in time. Not that they're big mysteries or anything, it's just that I don't want it to be a clunky exposition dump.**

 **While the conversation between Arty and Yang was obviously more about Yang and her doubts about Raven, I felt really damn good when Arty quipped about his relationship with his father. At the beginning of the story, that was an uncrossable line, but the fall put things into perspective for him. I dunno, it just felt nice.**

 **I purposefully skipped over the Evil Council of Evil (TM) from the first scene of V4 because it's more of a roll-call than anything. There's a bit more to it than that, but it's really not worth delving into.**

* * *

 ** _Anyway_ , it's been about two months since I last updated a fic. My bad.**

 **Mind if I ramble?  
**

 **So, here's the thing: TFI was born from a desire to write a crossover fic. _Special Beings_ was born from a desire to tell a story about some characters I'd grown an interest in. By all rights, _Special Beings_ deserves to be written more.**

 **But I just... can't.**

 **Maybe if I'd persisted it would have gotten easier. Maybe I'm just stuck on the one chapter (which I have a full draft of, by the way; I'm just not happy with it), but it simply wasn't fun to write. And, if (when I eventually edit that chapter to a point I'm happy with) I publish that one chapter, I'll probably go back to _Special Beings_ and see if it gets easier. But I can't promise anything.**

 **For the time being, though, I'm returning to _TFI._ I _like_ writing Artorias, Yang, Patches, Ozpin, [redacted]... they're fun. I've devoted so much time and love to their stories now that I can't help but be passionate about them. There's so much about these characters that I can't wait to get on the page and share with you guys. I can't fake that passion for _Special Beings._**

 **So, anyway, that's how I'm feeling about it. I wouldn't rule out occasional updates on _Special Beings_ when I'm struck with inspiration, but I wouldn't count on it either. As far as fanfiction is concerned, I'm back to _TFI_ and won't be leaving probably until its conclusion.**

 **...but I did like writing omakes for _Special Beings_ , so I think I'll continue the practice in _TFI._ Not this chapter though; I'm knackered.**

* * *

 **...and this is the point where I'd usually say how long until the next chapter, but I'm afraid I don't know for sure. I'd _like_ to get back into the weekly rhythm, but that may not be possible for me right now. Real life's a bitch.**


	42. Chapter 41: The Next Step

**Thanks for welcoming me back so kindly, folks. Enjoy the chapter.**

* * *

" _For Mantle!"_

 _Vengarl knew he ought to recognise the mangled face before him. But, swinging his bloodstained blade down once more, he could not recall it; every time he tried, the words echoed in his mind again. For Mantle._

 _Was it all a lie? Had the traitor ever been sincere? He wanted to think that he had. He tried to search deep down, looking for a gut feeling, but found only uncertainty. Perhaps he'd never know._

 _It was too late now._

" _That's enough, kid."_

 _Vengarl brought his blade down again without thinking, and this time it cut through muscle and bone and sinew, and the traitor's head fell from his neck._

Another sunrise, another day.

Oscar Pine pushed himself upright and let the covers fall away. "Hello?" he called.

"You don't even remember me, do you?"

He snapped his head to the side, following the voice, to see the blonde woman leaning by the door. A hat was pulled down to obscure her face, and her arms were folded.

"I remember you from the other day, at least," Oscar said. "Not that that's a good thing."

"Why not?"

"Because it—all this, I mean—it just means I'm going crazy. Right?"

The woman shrugged, then nodded. "Trust your instincts," she said.

 _That's not encouraging,_ Oscar thought.

" _Ignore her."_ There it was: the voice in his head. Professor Ozpin, he called himself. At least the woman was decent company. She didn't ask anything of him. She was just here to talk, it seemed. But the Professor… he was distracting. And he was demanding. _"You're not crazy, Oscar."_

Oscar shook his head, clearing his thoughts, then moved past her through the door. "I have work to do," he said.

" _Are you sure you don't remember her, Oscar?"_

"She's just a figment of my imagination. You both are. But at least she's nice to me." _Sometimes._ Oscar descended into the barn and reached for the metal pail. "I have work to do."

" _I understand. And I apologise for her presence. She's complicating things a little more than I'd like."_

"Well, apologise for yourself," Oscar said, opening up the barn and heading for the water pump.

" _I would if I sincerely could. This is not ideal for me either, Oscar, believe me. But I don't have a choice. We-"_

"I have work to do," Oscar repeated, firmer this time. Ozpin fell silent.

/-/

Artorias disembarked from the airship and marched into Shade Academy, making straight for his team's dorm.

He'd spent long enough hiding in Vale. It was time to face the music. Quelaan called out to him as he passed her, and he spared a moment only to tell her he'd talk to her later.

He didn't want to see the disappointment in Ciaran's eyes, or the void where Gough's used to be. It would hurt, he knew that. But he owed it to them. They were his team, his friends. He owed them an apology.

His eyes were drawn to June's office at the top of the CCT Tower as he passed through its shadow, but, after a moment's hesitation, he continued regardless. The halls of the dorm block were empty and lonely, save for Alvina who darted out of Artorias' way as he passed.

"Gough?" he called quietly as he reached their team's dorm. The door was locked, and he waved his scroll at the terminal to unlock it. But the room within was empty. The windows were open, and a faint breeze ruffled the curtains. The beds were made, though Gil's was covered by a white sheet.

"Ciaran?" Artorias called, though he knew it was pointless. They weren't here.

Scowling, he pulled his scroll from his pocket to dial her number. The call went to her voicemail.

"Artorias?"

Artorias turned to face the speaker. Quelaan stood in the doorway, arms folded. "It's rude to brush off a friend, you know?" she said.

"Sorry." Artorias rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. "…how're things?"

"Panic. Despair. Sorrow. A typical Monday." Quelaan entered the dorm, her arachnid half barely fitting through the doorway, and wrapped her arms around Artorias in a hug. "Missed you."

"Yeah." He hugged her back. "Missed you too."

"They're in Old Oasis," she said, without letting go. "Your team, I mean."

Artorias stepped away, a frown on his face. "Gough? Travelling?"

"They're with Team Hammer," she said. "Don't worry. He'll be fine. They're… well… I'd have gone too. But I still don't feel entirely comfortable around Team Hammer, so…" She shrugged. "I'll go tonight."

 _Oh._ "Funeral?"

She nodded. "Yeah. No bodies to bury. They have a hammer, though, at least. The spear, though? Eh..."

"It's a bident," he corrected quietly. He supposed it made sense. Smough's body had seemed beyond recovery, and he doubted that returning the dead to their own kingdoms was high on the priority list right now. Maybe Gil's would _never_ be returned. There'd been so many outside the hospital on the night of the fall that Artorias hadn't even been able to find it. He imagined the bident had gone with it, where ever it was now. "Thanks for letting me know."

/-/

"Commander." The word passed from Vengarl's lips before he realised his mistake. He did a double take, looking back at Jaune. "My apologies. I, uh…"

"Yeah, this is weird, isn't it?"

"Not at all," Vengarl assured him. "I just need a moment to acclimatise."

"Well, the climate's what it's all about." Jaune pulled the blue coat tighter around himself and jammed his hands into his pockets for warmth. "Is it like this year-round?"

Vengarl tugged his fur cloak about his shoulders. His breath formed clouds of mist before him. A wave crashed against the pier struts, sending a chill spray against his face, and he shivered. The icy glaciers of Solitas loomed up and down the coast. "It's only this bad in winter," he said, "but it's still bloody cold the other nine months."

"Figures."

"Doesn't help us much right now though," said Nora behind them. Vengarl looked back towards the ship as she and Ren approached, wearing so many layers of clothing that they could barely bend their limbs. "Are we gonna get inside or what?"

Glancing skyward, Vengarl noted that the sun was past its zenith already. Atlesian winters had short days; it would not be long before nightfall. Snow gently fell from the sky, and dark clouds on the horizon promised more. "You ought to be able to get some clothes somewhere here," he said. They'd landed at a small trading port south of Mantle. He didn't imagine they'd find any clothes of great quality or style, but there'd definitely be clothes warm enough for the winter. Vengarl pulled some lien from a pocket and passed it around the students. "See if you can get some proper winter clothes, then come find me. I'll get us a place to stay the night, and we'll press north in the morning."

Nodding, Jaune, Ren, and Nora set off, the latter two waddling a bit. Vengarl watched them for a moment before they disappeared around a corner, then turned his attention to the town: Port Lineage. Beyond the row of squat warehouses lay buildings of brick and slate and concrete, very few of which were more than one story tall. Shrugging, he set off to wander.

The streets were wider than he anticipated, though most were little more than tracks in deep snow. He passed a few townsfolk as he walked, and, after asking for some directions, altered his course somewhat. The streets grew narrower as he approached the eastern edge of town, unprotected by a wall or the ocean or steep cliffs. They were also better-maintained though, with the snow swept to the sides revealing the actual paved path underfoot. He came to a wide brick building, three stories tall, with ill-conceived balconies protruding over the street to slowly gather snow.

The reception area was small and cramped and smelled of tobacco, and it didn't take long for him to catch the attention of the balding man at the desk and book a place to stay. Vengarl quickly retired to the room: a little living space with one bedroom but enough couches for everyone to comfortably sleep.

He shrugged off his pack, leaving it in the corner, then his cloak which he hung behind the door, and his sword-belt which he leaned against the wall. When had he become a walking armoury? His own two weapons, ancient and rusted, hung from the belt; Raime's shield formed the brace of his pack; Lucatiel's sword and the Profaned Greatsword sat beneath his cloak.

Though he had his reasons, he mused that he maybe shouldn't have bothered retrieving the weapons from the old palace.

Shrugging the thought off, he sent a message to Jaune to let him know where to go, before dialling the Valean Embassy. He ought to be close enough to Atlas' CCT Tower to make contact within the kingdom.

" _This is the Valean Embassy to the Kingdom of Atlas, Bert Duhl speaking. How can I help you?"_ The audio was fuzzy and the picture non-existent, but it was serviceable.

"This is Vengarl Sand. I'm calling to enquire about transport from Port Lineage to Atlas. Are there any airships leaving within the next few days?"

" _We're in for a particularly nasty winter this year, Mr Sand. If you were in Mantle, maybe, you'd be able to get off the ground today, but the blizzards are due to roll in in two days. You'd be hard pressed to find a pilot willing to fly until spring."_

"Unfortunate," Vengarl mused. "You may still be able to help me, however. I request that you send me all documents relevant to code en-zero-nine-six-seven."

He heard some fingers striking keys. _"I'll need to verify your identity. Could you repeat your full name for me, Mr Sand…?"_

"Vengarl Sand."

" _Okay then. Ooh… my apologies, sir, but I'll just need to ask a few personal questions to be sure. If your answers match the info in our database, we'll be in business."_

"Is this really necessary?"

" _After recent events? Yes. Everyone's on high alert, I'm afraid. State your place of birth."_

"Forossa."

" _Knighthood?"_

"Order of Mirrah."

" _Religious denomi- hold on, I-"_

"Northwarder, non-practicing."

" _That's a real thing? Thought somebody'd messed with the database for a laugh. What's a Northwarder do anyway?"_

"Does it matter?"

" _Sorry, sorry, I just- it's not every day I get to talk to a knight, you know? An actual knight!"_

"Just send me the files."

" _Of course, sir. Right away. Your signal's very faint, so I'll need your scroll to remain connected for an hour or so. Will that be manageable?"_

"That's acceptable. Thank you."

/-/

"The Sun provideth; I shall not want," recited Eygon. "He giveth me great lands to roam; he leadeth me to dust and water. He restoreth my spirit; he leadeth me in the paths of my ancestors. Yea, though I now walk alone amidst lonely sands, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy sword and thy crown they protect me."

Ciaran turned Gough to face the graves. They—and an entire cortege of mourners, sat atop collapsed pillars and other debris that had fallen long ago in the shadow of the old cathedral.

The two graves that mattered were only part of a long row, all painstakingly dug to around six feet below the surface despite the softness of the sand. The coffins at their bottom were empty. One was marked by a sundered hammer pushed into the sand. The other by a cracked spear with a red ribbon tied beneath the head; Ash, Gilderoy's bident, was missing somewhere in Vale. But the spear he'd briefly wielded against Nora and Pyrrha in the tournament, Ronald, had been recovered.

And, though it was Gilderoy's grave she was here for, she did feel her heart stir at the sight of Eygon and Leeroy and Havel standing over their friend's weapon.

"Thou preparest a feast before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou draweth semblance from soul."

Eygon looked up from the book, turning to his teammates, and nodded once. Havel and Leeroy held their clenched fists over the grave, and sand trickled out from between their fingers. "My cup runneth over," said Eygon. "Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life."

When the sand ran dry, they departed into the crowd.

Ciaran patted Gough on the shoulder, and together they stood, Gough grabbing the long pole he was using for a cane. She helped him through the marble and sandstone ruins and those seated among them towards Gilderoy's grave.

"Eygon told me all that came from the nomads, from before Mum and Dad died. Smough wrote it all down, apparently. Everything he could remember," Gough said quietly. "He never told me, though. And I don't remember those days much at all."

"What _do_ you remember?"

"Faces, mostly. A great feast around a bonfire on a coast somewhere…" he shrugged. "Are any of them here now?"

"Maybe." Ciaran turned back to scan the crowd. There were folk from all over Vacuo, from all walks of life. She didn't know many of them. There was Rhea, the sole survivor of her team; Eygon, Leeroy, and Havel, returning to their seats; Professor Brim, for the first time seen with his hat in his hands rather than on his head. She recognised a few civilians in the mix, and many other students, but she didn't know them by name. "It's hard to tell."

They reached the grave. The small murmurings that had begun in the lull died down entirely. Ciaran watched to make sure Gough didn't trip into the gaping hole, then stepped back behind him a little. She wasn't much of a public speaker, but Gough had never lacked that sort of confidence, even now with the blindfold covering his wounds.

If she _were_ to say something, she thought, she'd tell Gilderoy that she'd always admired his drive to better himself. She didn't know _how_ she'd put it. Only that that's what she'd structure her words around.

She offered it up as a silent prayer.

"Gilderoy…" Gough started. Whatever words he hoped to say next died in his throat. Ciaran nudged him, partly to prompt him and partly to have him face the crowd properly.

Taking a deep breath, he pulled a slip of paper from a pocket and unfolded it. Ciaran, confused, got a glance at it. It was blank, but Gough still tilted his head down as though to read it anyway.

"For Gilderoy," he said. "I can no longer read. You can no longer breathe."

He folded the paper up again, dropped it into the grave, then began to slowly return to the crowd.

Ciaran stood alone for a moment, dumbstruck, before following after him, taking his arm as she reached him and helping him to a seat. Gough passed the rest of the long ceremony in silence, his jaw clenched. More people spoke. More sand was poured.

Then came the procession. People passed the graves and offered their prayers and their condolences to each other. But Gough remained seated, and though Ciaran sat with him, he seemed to sit alone.

The sun soon began to set over the horizon. One by one, the cortege began to thin. The graves were left open, that anyone might pay their respects during the night, and would be filled in the morning. Professor Brim took up his post to watch that the dead would not be violated.

"Do you know who Adam Taurus is?" Gough asked at last.

Ciaran nodded. "White Fang. Reasonably important. He was at the Fall. Or so I hear."

"Blake told me Adam Taurus was a good man. Passionate. Prone to anger, but fiercely loyal. He cried the first time he killed a man. That's what she told me."

"What's this about?"

"Blake told me Adam Taurus killed my brother." Gough pushed himself upright, leaning a little on his cane. "And I am going to kill him."

It took a moment for Ciaran to realise what Gough had just said. His voice had dropped deadly low, and she heard a slight growl in it that she didn't recognise. Anger. It was anger.

"…what?"

/-/

"Knock knock!" Nora called. "Is this the right room? Jauney, I think we've got the wrong room."

"Enter," Vengarl said, his voice muffled somewhat by the door.

"Oop! It's the right room."

Nora pushed through the door first. She'd replaced her vest with a dark blue aviator jacket with a thick white-fur lining, and her skirt with a pair of pink jeans that Jaune had to hope were made of some thicker denim to ward off the cold. Jaune knew he ought to wonder as to _how_ she'd found such brightly-coloured jeans in such a relative backwater, but he'd long since learned not to question Nora. Ren had donned a long olive-coloured parka over his green tailcoat and some fur-lined travelling boots. Jaune himself had added a long yellow scarf to his ensemble to keep his neck warm, as well as thick fur gloves to replace his old leather pauper's gloves.

"We _match!"_ Nora said, clinging to Ren's arm. Vengarl arched an eyebrow. They did _not_ match.

"As long as you're prepared to travel..."

"Well, I mean, we were prepared to travel _before_ , just not in the cold." Nora gasped dramatically. "What if we travelled _really fast_ so we could keep our body heat up and _not have to change our clothes!?_ "

"But we _have_ changed our clothes," Jaune pointed out.

"I mean hypothetically, silly. Did you find out the stuff from the people for the thing?" Nora asked, directing her question at Vengarl.

"Yes." Vengarl reached for his scroll. "Vale has identified three persons of interest for the empty seat on the council."

"Who are we supposed to be supporting, again?" Jaune asked. Vengarl had explained the mission in broad strokes: the council had hired Vengarl to oversee the election and to influence it as necessary, but Jaune wasn't _quite_ knowledgeable enough about politics to know what that exactly entailed.

"Whoever is most amicable to continued relations with Vale," Vengarl said, "which is not at all an easy thing to determine. Archdeacon Royce was selected as the new Pontiff of the church as of yesterday, and it'd be quite the surprise were he not to run for the Irithyll seat. A little out of the public eye he holds some shares in Valean businesses, so it's in his best interest for Atlas and Vale to remain cordial, but…"

"But he could be following the church's agenda instead of his own?" Ren asked. "I've read he's a zealous sort."

"Is it even legal for a church official to have his fingers in so many foreign pies?" Jaune asked.

"Mmm… pie…"

"He's rich," Vengarl said, as if it explained everything (which it almost did). "I don't know if it's legal, but he can get away with it if it's not. I'm not too concerned about the possibility of his victory, however. The besmirching of Sulyvahn's name reflects on the church." Vengarl tossed the scroll over to Jaune. "I'm more interested in these two," he said. "Arthur Watts and Eliza Farron. One is a B-rate scientist, the other a huntress."

Jaune glanced down at the scroll. Beyond that, little was known about them. The recently-resurfaced Watts was a scientist who'd only recently returned to Atlas after a decade of self-imposed exile, and Farron was a Huntress who'd graduated from Atlas Academy three years ago. Their agendas and their motivations were thus far unknown.

But, for whatever reasons they had, they were both running for the Irythill seat.

"We'll look into it further when we reach Atlas," Vengarl said. "It's three days on foot to Mantle. If we can't find passage from there, it'll be another two weeks' walk to the capital."

"And we'll train on the road?" Jaune asked. He had to get stronger. He had to _learn._ He needed to be strong enough, next time he faced Cinder.

He needed to be strong enough to _kill_ her.

"Aye," Vengarl said. "We'll train."

/-/

"Professor?"

"I have not yet fallen asleep, Mr Nym," Professor Brim said quietly. "Pay your respects and move on, in that order. Or skip to the second step; it's up to you."

Artorias nodded and quickly moved past the professor, knowing that he didn't like to socialise unless necessary. Doubtless that behaviour wasn't helped by the locale.

"You go first," muttered Quelaan. "I have others to see." She headed off towards the left.

Though it was dark, it didn't take long for Artorias to find Gilderoy's grave, aided by his faunus heritage. The pit yawned open before the headstone, and even though Artorias knew the coffin to be empty, he didn't dare peak over its edge. But still he made his way towards it.

He didn't know what to do with his hands. It felt odd to hold them behind his back. Too formal, too rigid… it was what he imagined to be polite, but it felt disingenuous to fake politeness _after_ his friend's death, when he rarely ever did beforehand. In his pockets felt disrespectful, as did folding his arms, and letting them hang at his sides made him feel powerless.

In the end, he let them hang.

"Well done on beating Penny," he began.

He winced.

Making his best effort to remove his foot from his mouth, he tried again. "I'm… sorry. I don't know what to say." He glanced around, checking if anyone had heard him, but it was so close to morning by this point that only Professor Brim remained. "I don't do these kinds of things very well. Heart-to-heart, I mean. Not that… I mean, your heart kinda isn't… you know what I mean." Artorias offered a weak smile.

"You always wanted me to be better: a better person, and a better huntsman, and a better friend. I'm sorry for disappointing you, but thank you for believing in me. Or faking belief in me. It was hard to tell sometimes." He chuckled lightly and ran a hand through his hair. "I bet Gough and Ciaran were _way_ more eloquent."

/-/

Winter Schnee's boot struck the paved stone road, a dark glyph arresting her momentum. "Halt!" she yelled.

The arsonist reached for a gun at his side, fumbling with the holster. Winter raised an open palm and let the bullets' impacts dissipate on her aura. "Drop the weapon," she said, "and hold your hands over your head where I can see them."

Another bullet came screaming towards her, and she batted it aside with her saber. The arsonist fled into an alley, his eyes wide with terror behind the ski mask.

Gritting her teeth, Winter gave chase, alighting on a glyph that sped her after him. A _crack_ of gunfire echoed through the air, and when she reached him, she saw that he'd shot himself. Pieces of his skull and brain were smeared against the walls, and what remained of his face was a mangled, unrecognisable mess.

She swore under her breath. Another one. She'd have to report this; the attacks were growing more and more frequent, and more and more severe.

She turned around, seeking the profile of a particular building on the Irithyll skyline.

Great jets of water spurted into the air to no avail. The fire had taken root. The empty home of Aisling Sulyvahn was burning.

* * *

 **I initially wanted the Vacuo-plot for this chapter to be exposition-focused regarding June, Gwyn, etc. but upon drafting it it felt... wrong. I was constantly needling lines from June berating Artorias for coming to her before his team, which in the end came across as lampshading rather than justification of plot over character. Arty _still_ hasn't come face to face with his team, but putting the focus here on grieving and the deceased does help me for that inevitable reunion.**

 **What I ended up with, of course, is the funeral, which gave me an opportunity to explore Vacuo's culture. With all the (relative) lawlessness, I imagine both friendships and grudges form quickly and last a long time. That sort of society wouldn't really work if everyone believed in 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend', or, more appropriately, its implied reversal: 'the friend of my enemy is my enemy'; as such, a person in Vacuo might have a mutual friend with their worst enemy. Funeral customs developed to accommodate these complex webs of relationships. Funerals take place during the day, and are open to the deceased's close friends and family; the grave is then left open to all during the night. The burial proper only happens the next morning.**

 **I do feel kinda weird about adapting Psalm 23. It's to help build an identity for Smough and Gough's nomadic past. I'm a huge fan of characters in historical fiction who keep pantheons of pagan gods in the face of Christianity, you see, but in Remnant polytheism is a far more widespread belief system than monotheism-even the Church of the Deep is less about a singular god or concept and more about saints-so it's a reversal of the evolution of religion in Europe, in that the older pagan religions keep one god while modern religions keep many. Still feels odd though. Oh well.**

 **Besides... who wouldn't want to hear Eygon read scripture? He's got one hell of a voice.**

* * *

Omake: The 39th Vytal Festival Tournament

Releasing the trigger and drawing a deep breath through the fabric of his cloak, Artorias stepped back to survey his handiwork.

It was... perfect.

Sublime.

He dropped his cloak from his face and framed the picture with his fingers. This might be his greatest work _ever_ , and though he'd hoped not to peak at seventeen, now that he'd done so he felt it was totally worth it.

Somebody coughed behind him. Not a real cough, of course; it was a cough to get his attention. That didn't bode well at all.

"Put the spray-can down and turn around slowly."

He knew that voice. "Winter?"

"Do it."

Artorias pursed his lips. He stole one last glance at his magnum opus before complying; the Shi-nee toothpaste billboard featuring Winter's forced smile-and, courtesy of Artorias-now also featuring her moustache and mutton chops.

He sighed and did what he was told. "Heeeey~" he said. She held her sabre loosely towards him, and her expression was frighteningly blank.

"I really thought better of you."

"You think I shoulda given you a soul patch too? I mean, I _was_ going back and forth on that one..."

Her deadpan somehow became deader.

"So," Artorias said nervously, "watcha doin'?"

"I was looking for you," she said, finally sheathing her weapon. "I have a lead, and I was _going_ to invite you along. Now I'm contemplating the wisdom of that decision."

Artorias waited a moment for her to continue. She did not. "And how's the contemplation going?"

She narrowed her eyes, but still did not respond.

"Wait. How'd you even find me?"

"You really ought to disable your 'Find my Friends' app."

"That's a thing?"

"It's a thing." She sighed. "Fine. Come on, let's go."

Artorias raised an eyebrow. "Did my display of incompetence sway you?"

"Sure. Come on," she repeated.

He shrugged and turned to pick up his spray-can. "I'll just..."

Two pale blue eyes stared at him, and he stopped mid-movement. The summoned Beowolf looked distinctly guilty, with the spray-can held clumsily in its claws. After a moment of confused shock, it disappeared into a fine white mist. Artorias took in the newly altered billboard, now for 'Shi-tee toothpaste'.

"Nice."

"Speak of this to nobody."

"I mean, you really went all out," he praised, stepping closer to inspect Winter's summon's handwritten handiwork. "Serifs? What is this, Times New Mantle?"

Winter tutted and rolled her eyes. "It's clearly imitating Garamond, you uncultured Vacuan."

"Valean. You mean you _don't_ have a file on me yet?"

"Classified." She grabbed him by the cloak and pulled him away, using the precious few inches of height she still had over him to intimidate him. "You will tell nobody about this."

"Oh, I hear you."

"I mean it," she threatened. "Not even Gough."

"Why does everyone think I tell him everything?" Artorias rolled his eyes. "Pinky-swear not to." He raised the customary digit.

"Don't be so undignified. Just-"

"If you don't, I'll tell-"

"Oh, fine!"

* * *

 **Again, no promises on the next chapter. I'm on break from uni for another week still, so maybe next Friday/Saturday/Sunday?**


	43. Chapter 42: Power

" _Do you hear that?"_

 _King Vendrick of Mistral looked his trusted knight up and down, inspecting his shining steel armour. Raime met his gaze, his helm under his arm. They could hardly hear each other over the crowd's cheering._

 _Raime nodded. "I hear it."_

" _You don't seem pleased."_

 _Raime stole a narrowed-eyed glance at the new queen. "It's not my place, your grace."_

" _No," said King Vendrick. "It is not."_

 _Squaring his shoulders, Raime turned to look back at the crowd. His eyes were drawn to a little girl on her father's shoulders, a broad smile on her face._

" _I hope it never ends," Velstadt said, standing at Raime's side._

" _It's a distraction. Nothing more."_

" _And it's working." Velstadt sighed._

 _The little girl's eyes met his own. Her smile broadened, and she waved happily. Raime smiled back a little and nodded to her, and she giggled and pointed at him, lowering her head to chatter excitedly to her father._

" _I think you needed the distraction anyway." Velstadt said. "Heide's a long way."_

 _The royal procession turned to make its way towards the mountain, and Raime and Velstadt followed. His eyes bore into the queen's back, his brow furrowed._

" _Perhaps this was good for you too, my friend. I can tell the war weighs on your mind."_

" _Yes," Raime said, more to himself than anyone else. "The war."_

Oscar Pine pushed his toast around his plate with a fork, eyeing the poached egg atop it. He'd hardly slept the previous night, and his morning chores had left him almost too tired to eat.

His aunt, who'd already eaten, was busy outside, and he watched her as she gathered in the last of the crops. It was already growing cold, and the first snows of winter were supposed to be arriving within days from the west and north. If they were quick, the harvest would be done by the end of the day. He ought to go out and join her.

" _Have you ever seen General Ironwood, Oscar? Perhaps in a picture?"_

"Not you again," he groaned.

" _Humour me."_

"I'd rather humour myself, if it's all the same to you." Scowling, Oscar stabbed at his breakfast with newfound vigour. _It's all in your head_ , he thought to himself. _You are your own master._

" _You're right, of course. I am in your head. You are your own master. You and I are one, Oscar."_

"I have work to do today," Oscar said. "I don't have time for this."

Usually that would be enough to make him shut up, and for a brief moment it seemed that would be the case. But then Ozpin continued: _"Do you remember her?"_

"Wha- who?"

"Hey kid." Oscar jumped in his seat when he saw the blonde woman sitting in the chair next to him. "You look a bit pale. Odd. Pretty sure you get enough sunlight."

"Of course I remember her!" Oscar snapped. "She's…" He trailed off, trying to find a word on the tip of his tongue. "From the other day, I mean. I remember her."

" _What were you going to say?"_

"I don't know her name."

"Hurtful," she scoffed.

" _You weren't going to say her name, were you?"_

Oscar hesitated, then shook his head. "No. I couldn't have. I've never known it." He began to shovel his breakfast into his mouth, suddenly very much awake and keen for human company he knew to be real.

" _That's not what I mean. Try for me, Oscar. You'll understand when you can remember, I'm sure of it."_

"No time," he said between mouthfuls. "Gotta get the harvest." He finished eating and stood, making his way for the door.

" _General Ironwood,"_ Ozpin said, just as he put his hand on the doorknob. _"Please, Oscar. Describe him for me."_

Oscar grimaced, sighed, then said, "If it'll shut you up?"

Ozpin was silent. Oscar took that as a good sign. He thought for a second; he'd seen him a few times on the broadcast for the Vytal Festival. "Tall. Dark-haired, grey at the temples. Wears a white coat, red tie… and a white glove on his right hand."

" _Go on."_

"…the right side of his body is cybernetic." Oscar frowned. He didn't know that, did he? "I'm just guessing, I think."

" _You're correct. Our souls and auras—our very memories—are-"_

"You promised to shut up," Oscar said, a little absentmindedly.

" _Very well."_

/-/

Artorias woke late the next morning. The other beds in his dorm were empty, which had him raising an eyebrow; when he'd snuck back after visiting the grave, Ciaran and Gough had been fast asleep. Given the late hour, he'd kept quiet, but he wondered why they hadn't woken him up in the morning to talk before they'd left.

Not that he didn't appreciate the extra sleep, though. It had been a late night, after all.

He threw back the covers and got out of bed, pulling on his clothes before heading out in search of his team. He passed by Alvina at the exit of the dorm block, but despite his questions on more important subjects, the cat only told him how little she cared for his return. That was, of course, before snuggling up to his leg, which Artorias didn't need a semblance to understand as a sign of affection.

As the most central location, the CCT tower seemed the best place to start looking for them. But he'd hardly left the dorm block when he saw Havel crossing the courtyard towards the road, adjusting the straps on his armour.

"Hey!" Artorias called. "Have you seen Gough?"

Havel paused to regard him a moment. "Firing range, unless they've moved on. Didn't see you yesterday."

"I came later."

"I'm sorry for that."

"Timing issue. Not social." Artorias ran a hand through his hair. "How was the ceremony?"

"Emotional."

"You have such a way with words."

"So I've been told." Havel sighed. "I don't know what to say. It was respectful. They're at peace. It's time to move on, or something to that extent." He hefted his massive hammer onto his shoulder. "If you see Egg or Leeroy tell them I've gone on ahead."

Artorias nodded. "Will do. Where are you going?"

"Elsewhere. I've graduated," Havel said, deadpan.

"Oh. Right. Well… good luck."

"You too."

He gave a curt nod then departed down the road towards town. Artorias watched after him a moment, then turned towards the firing range.

As he approached, the familiar _thud_ of Gough's arrows reached his ears, and entering into the open-air structure, he saw the giant of a man at the end of the range, shooting arrow after arrow at a small bell. All his shots came close, but none actually hit it. Ciaran stood near him. As Artorias approached, Gough asked Ciaran to go and ring the bell for him again.

Noticing Artorias, she did not.

"Ciaran?" Gough called.

"Hey," Artorias said awkwardly.

Gough turned towards him. A pale yellow blindfold covered his eye sockets, and his head was tilted as if listening intently. "You're awake," Ciaran said.

"Seems that way." Artorias stepped closer. "I'm sorry."

"Ring the bell, Ciaran."

"Gough, please-"

"You crossed a line!" Gough burst out, taking a shaky step towards him and pointing an accusing finger (though he was pointing a little to the left). Ciaran stood behind him, seemingly paralysed. "I don't need an apology. I never needed an apology. I needed friends to pull me out of that hospital bed, and everyone was there but you. Grieve however you please, Artorias, but don't you… how fucking _dare_ you turn your back on your friends."

Artorias and Ciaran both winced. "Gough-" Ciaran started.

"We're a team. We're a _family!_ "

"Family can disappoint you."

"That's not an excuse." Gough clenched a fist. "This is about you, Artorias. _You_ let me down."

Artorias sighed. "And what can I do now? How can I help?"

"Ring the bell."

After a moment's hesitation, Artorias nodded. "Okay," he said, when he remembered that Gough couldn't see it. He walked down the firing range and dinged the little bell before making his way back, his boots crunching on the hard-packed sand.

Gough fired an arrow when Artorias was only about halfway back. It went way wide, rocketing instead towards Artorias. He raised his aura in preparation, but it went high, slamming into the dust a few metres behind him.

"Gough!" Ciaran shouted. "What was that?"

"Did I hit him?"

"Not quite," Artorias called back.

Gough grimaced briefly, then seemed to give up. "…that's a start." Gough loosened the string on his bow and reached for a cane leaning against the low fence separating the safety area from the range. "I'm going for breakfast. I know the way."

"Are you sure?" Ciaran asked.

Gough nodded and slowly began to make his way towards the exit, his cane tapping against the ground. Ciaran watched him, go, her mouth set in a thin line.

"Should we follow him?" Artorias asked Ciaran quietly once he'd dusted himself off and returned to the safety area.

"I want to… but no. He wants to be alone right now."

"…fair enough."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Is that all you can say?"

"What do you want from me?" Artorias asked tiredly. "I just heard Gough _swear_ , and at me no less. Not saying I didn't deserve it, but that's the kinda thing that leaves you emotionally dead for months."

"Not the part where he shot at you?"

"I'll worry about that when he hits me. You're not going to shoot at me too, are you?"

Ciaran held his gaze for a moment, then shook her head. "It's tempting. But I've missed you too much to kill you now."

"That's… sweet of you to say." He ran a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry for hiding away. I didn't mean to hurt you or Gough."

"I know." She stepped closer and pulled him into an embrace. A little surprised, Artorias returned it. "This is who you are."

"Is it, though?" _You let me down._ A shiver ran up his spine.

"I know you, Artorias." She tilted her head up at him. "Sometimes it seems to be despite your best efforts."

"Maybe you're right." He sighed. "How about you? How're you holding up?"

Ciaran's shoulders slumped, and it seemed a lot of tension released all at once. "It's getting easier. Gough's getting used to… well… but it's still hard. Gil's gone," she said, as if it explained everything. It almost did. "I feel drained all the time."

"Take a page out of my book," Artorias suggested. "Get drunk. Forget for a night."

"That didn't turn out so well for you."

"Then don't take the whole book." He shrugged. "Just an idea."

Ciaran smiled lightly and pulled away, heading for the exit. "I guess you're not wrong. I should go make sure Gough's gone in the right direction. Are you…?"

Artorias shook his head. "I think I, at least, should give Gough his space. I'll try again tonight." And besides, he needed to speak with June.

"Make sure that you do," Ciaran warned.

"Yeah. I know."

/-/

"Doctor?"

There was a loud bang, followed by some cursing, followed by the pattering of footsteps. Doctor Polendina slid the door open, looking quite a bit thinner than General Ironwood remembered him, and not wearing his glasses. The shorter man leaned forwards, squinting. "Ah. General. I… uh…"

"It's been two weeks, doctor. It's time."

"Right! Yes. Two weeks. Time does tick on, I suppose."

"…you _are_ ready, aren't you?"

"Ready?" The doctor's eyes lit up. "Yes! It's… ready." But the spark in his eyes died as quickly as it had come, and he let out a long sigh. His legs shook, and he pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand. "I'm sorry, sir. I don't know if _I'm_ ready."

"I can't afford to wait on this, doctor."

"On what? Oh, yes, Vordt. Slipped my mind, I'm afraid. Give it to somebody else."

James was about to argue with him, but then he gave the diminutive figure before him another up-down look. He was thin, his hair thinner, and his skin was pallid. He also stank something horrendous.

"Have you been home at all these past weeks?" James asked.

"Probably not."

"What have you been doing down here?"

Doctor Polendina smiled tiredly. "Come in. Let me show you."

/-/

The elevator travelled up the tower excruciatingly slowly. Artorias' shoes were off within the first moment, and he spent the rest of the ride bouncing on the balls of his feet restlessly and inwardly cursing the tinny elevator music.

At long last, the doors slid open. "Professor?"

She was stooped over the table, scroll in one hand and sifting through papers with the other. She glanced up as he entered. "Good. You're back." She took another look down at her papers, then her shoulders slumped and she stopped bothering to sort them. She placed her scroll down on the table and stretched her back, raising her arms over her head with a yawn. "I needed a break anyway. Sit down." She gestured to one of the couches, falling into one of them herself. "What happened in Vale?" she asked. "Tell me everything."

"Wait, wait, wait," Artorias said. "Just… I mean, _I_ have questions too."

June stared at him blankly for a moment before realisation seemed to wash over her. "Right. I forgot."

Artorias leaned forwards in his seat. She didn't look _exactly_ like the woman in the Ringed City, he supposed, but gods it was close. "Who _are_ you?"

"Sometimes I don't know myself," June said. "The soul has a surprisingly vivid memory. It's hard to separate that life from this one. Right now, I am Professor June. That doesn't change. But, long ago, I was Gwynevere, the eldest daughter of Gwyn, the Lord of Sunlight. Did Ozpin cover that?"

"A lot of titles, but not many names. Gwyn, huh?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Mm-hmm." She smiled. "I'll admit, I had a bit of a laugh when I named your team."

"Ozpin also said that it was my job to find your reincarnation. If you die, I mean."

She nodded. "It's a difficult job. Some personal quirks are retained across lives, but it's not easy to see an old soul in a new body."

"Whose soul did you see in Gil?" Artorias asked. "Ozpin wouldn't tell me."

June looked away. "It doesn't matter. I was wrong, and Gil is… well. I'm sorry."

"It matters."

June sighed and, after a moment's hesitation, reached into her pocket for a flask. "It's-"

"Do all teachers just carry booze everywhere?" Qrow had worn his flask on his sleeve, and Artorias vaguely recalled a drunken conversation with the grizzled huntsman about 'Jimmy' Ironwood's drinking habits.

"Let me finish," June cut in. "It's a long story." She sipped from her flask before pocketing it again. "Firstly: yes. Everyone except Glynda."

"Even Oobleck?"

"No, that one's really coffee, but it's probably strong enough to be considered toxic. Secondly, if I told you his name it wouldn't really mean anything to you just yet. Especially _his_ name. Oz struck it from history. I'm not sure why; it was the will of my—of _Gwynevere's_ father, but I don't know why Oz chose to follow through on it." She shrugged. "I suppose I should start from the beginning. You're familiar with _The Legend of the Lords_ , no?"

"Ozpin went over that one. The souls are an analogy for the relics from _The Tale of the Two Brothers_."

June frowned. "He always took that one a little too literally for my liking. I never held faith in a power higher than the Lords."

"So… there _aren't_ two brother gods?" Artorias furrowed his brow. Ozpin had been quite adamant.

"Maybe." June shrugged. "It was a story first told by Kaathe and Fraampt—another long story—that Oz perpetuated. Maybe the relics came from them, maybe they didn't. It doesn't really matter. If they ever existed, they're long gone now. The story is a solid foundation though."

Something about her words struck a chord of recognition in Artorias, though he couldn't quite remember where he'd heard it before.

"At the dawn of time, humanity was granted the relics. Gwyn claimed Destruction. Oz—yes, he's that old—claimed Creation. Salem claimed Choice. Knowledge came—or was only found—later. I doubt anyone knows for sure why, except perhaps those who wielded it. If Ozpin knows, he never told me.

"With the first three relics, they pushed back the creatures of Grimm. Gwyn carved out the kingdom of Vacuo, while Oz and Salem founded Vale to the east. The two kingdoms were… amicable, but Gwyn himself was distant, both physically and emotionally. He coveted the other relics above all other treasures, and his jealousy kept him isolated.

"Gwyn had five children. I—Gwynevere—was second-born behind Malgwyn, Gwyn's heir. Gwyndolin came after me, then Priscilla the bastard-child, and Filianore, the youngest.

"Gwyn may have been a great man, but not a good one. He was greedy and cruel, quick to anger and slow to forgive. When Kaathe and Frampt came to Vacuo, he had them maimed as punishment for their apostasy. When a new king rose to power across the Bight of Thunder, Gwyn held no parley, sending Malgwyn to crush them without mercy. And when news spread of Mistral and the Relic of Knowledge, he sent Malgwyn across the world to steal the relic for himself."

"And Malgwyn failed?"

June shook her head. "No. He _consciously_ disobeyed his father. Not for the first time, mind, but… well, Gwyn saw this as the final betrayal. When Malgwyn returned to Vacuo empty-handed, Gwyn banished him. If not for Gwyndolin's interference, he'd have likely been executed for treason.

"Malgwyn fled north, gathering other dissenters and exiles to him in search of a new land rumoured to exist far across the sea. Not long afterwards, he named himself the first king of Mantle." She sighed. "I believed that Gilderoy was Malgwyn reincarnated. His weapon and fighting style are—were—very similar, and I thought I saw him in his desire for order. But I was wrong. Had Gilderoy known his semblance, I'd have been able to confirm it earlier."

"Gil knows his semblance," Artorias said. "He just keeps it quiet. He can amplify shock dust."

June snorted. "Just to make my life more difficult, I suppose. Although Malgwyn _did_ have a penchant for shock dust, his semblance gave him control over the weather. If you ever meet somebody like that, let me know. You wouldn't believe how hard I had to push Ozpin to test Gilderoy."

"Odd tests too." Artorias rolled his eyes. "Operation Mirrah? He wasn't very subtle about it." Artorias frowned. "He explained to me what Operation Mirrah _was_ , but do you know why it was supposed to be significant?"

"I don't even know what that is," June said. "My first life was prolonged by the Ringed City. I was removed from the affairs of the world for many years, while Malgwyn and Oz have lived countless lives. This is only my third."

"Oh. Right. _Only_."

"And Oz is beginning another, or so I hear." She set her now-empty glass down on the table. "Talk."

Artorias obliged.

He told her everything, beginning from the bout between Gilderoy and Penny. He told her about Winter's mission to apprehend Sulyvahn and Raime, and he told her of their crimes. He told her about Gil and his injury and the Nevermore that gave it to him. He told her of Roman Torchwick and the Atlesian ship; of Vordt and Raime who he hoped both had died from the fall. He told her about Cinder and Ozpin below the tower—as best he could relay it as he'd heard from Vengarl, who himself had only heard it from Jaune—and about the failed aura transfer.

He told her about Pyrrha.

And Gough and the dragon.

And Gilderoy.

"I met with Qrow and Vengarl after the fall," he continued, bringing the subject away from the more morbid side of things. "Qrow is following Cinder's trail to Mistral, and Vengarl's been contracted by the Valean council to oversee the election for Sulvyahn's successor."

"To meddle, I'm sure," June corrected. "Vale wouldn't bother otherwise."

"Not my business," Artorias said, shrugging. "I wanted to go east with Qrow, but he and Vengarl both said that you needed to be told about… well, all that. And that I should follow your orders."

"They're not entirely wrong." She idly tapped the pocket with the flask in it, deep in thought, then abruptly stood. "There's something I need to show you. Come on."

"Uh… alright?" Artorias hesitated, then obliged.

June made for the elevator, gesturing for Artorias to follow. As the doors shut, she pressed the button for the ground floor. "What happened to your jerkin, by the way?"

Artorias glanced down at his plain shirt. "Vordt tore it up pretty badly."

"Do you have any new armour yet?"

"No. I'll have to arrange it."

"Don't worry about it."

They entered the lobby of the CCT tower, and June led him into a little stairwell to the side that descended into a dimly-lit basement. Cobwebs covered the corners of the room, and crates were stacked in tall piles throughout. She pushed forwards, gently moving aside spiderwebs and shoving a crate aside that blocked her path. Artorias followed. They found themselves facing a blank brick wall on the other side of the room.

June gestured to the wall. "The relic of Choice lies beyond. The door's aura-activated."

"Ozpin said it was beneath Old Oasis."

"I sealed that entrance when I became headmistress. Go ahead."

Deep in the back of his mind, Artorias asked himself (not for the first time) if he really knew what he was getting into. He quashed that voice, then nodded and pressed his hand against the wall.

"Okay." Artorias sent a little jolt running down his arm. Cobalt sparks jumped from his fingertips, but nothing else happened.

"It needs a _lot_ of aura. Trust me."

Artorias breathed deeply, then nodded. He closed his eyes and emptied his mind. He pictured his hand, the crystal, the wall, and tried to see the energy flowing through them, cobalt blue with currents of kingfisher.

It came naturally, as aura ought. It was a part of him, and, in a torrent, it became part of the wall as well.

Blue and gold burst from his palm, swirling together, racing along hidden patterns in the wall and illuminating the room. The bricks shuddered, and a section of the wall began to lower into the floor to reveal a spiral staircase descending into the earth. Artorias jolted backwards, almost falling on shaky legs.

"That's a kick and a half," he breathed out raggedly.

"It's supposed to be, to leave potential intruders vulnerable. The door only stays open a minute, so anybody going alone is likely to trap themselves. Come on."

/-/

"You think Qrow'd let us go if he found us?" Ruby asked.

"Wouldn't want to risk it." Ruby and Yang stood together atop the cliff on Patch, the little gravestone before them peaking up from the light snow. The shattered moon shone brightly above them.

"Do you think he'd have stopped mum? If he'd known, I mean."

Yang said, "I think he'd have gone with her, to be honest."

"Sounds like him."

"Yeah. It does." Yang sighed. "We should go. Weiss and Blake are waiting for us."

"Not yet," Ruby said. "We should… I dunno. Should have brought flowers."

"Or cookies," Yang mused. "I think she'd have appreciated it more."

"Mm… yeah. I would too."

Yang laughed and threw an arm around her sister. "She'd be proud of you, you know?"

Ruby's smile died, and her eyes dropped back to the grave.

"This is the part where you say she'd be proud of your big sister Yang most of all," Yang prompted, her laugh a little more forced this time.

"What if this is our mission?" Ruby asked quietly. "The one we don't come back from. Like mum."

Yang frowned and pulled her Ruby closer to her side. "I don't know. What if?"

"I don't know either," Ruby said, clearly struggling to put her thoughts into words. "I just… I saw Pyrrha _die_. She'll never see Jaune again, and he'll never see her again, and… I dunno, I was thinking about that, and it just hit me that maybe we'll never see dad or Qrow or Zwei again. Like mum. Like Pyrrha. Like Penny too."

It was on Yang's mind too, she had to admit. "I don't know what to say."

Ruby didn't respond.

Yang wasn't sure what to make of that, but she pressed on, trying to sound as understanding as possible. "I get it, though. But we've all gotta leave the nest eventually, right? We need to be brave."

"Like Pyrrha," Ruby murmured.

"Yeah. Like Pyrrha."

"Do you think we'll find her? Cinder?"

"Haven't the foggiest. Got a better idea?"

Ruby shook her head and pulled away. "Not at all. Let's go. Goodbye, mum."

Yang trailed behind a few steps, enjoying the swell of pride she felt watching her sister step out into the world.

/-/

"As you said: it is your task to identify my reincarnation, when the time comes. But three lifetimes is too short a time for a soul to truly develop recognisable quirks and, unless I'm awakened to my old memories before you find me, I won't be able to help from my end. You'll have your work cut out for you."

Artorias nodded slowly. The spiral staircase had led to a long tunnel carved into sandstone, through which they now walked. June held her scroll up to light the way, though Artorias didn't need it as much as she did. "This is your third life, right? What about your second?"

"He was remarkably unobservant despite his profession," June said, "else he'd have realised he wasn't entirely normal. See, he was never awakened to our life as Gwynevere. His name was Elias, and he was born to a nomad tribe in Vacuo in the final days of the Great War. He ran away in his teens to immigrate to Vale in search of his father—never found him, by the way—and later joined the police force. He was killed by a rogue huntsman at the age of fifty-two." She pursed her lips in thought. "He preferred tea over coffee, which is a preference I've kept. I'd like to think I'll keep that one for a long time."

"That's not very helpful, though. Loads of people prefer tea over coffee."

"Don't tell Oz about it either. He'd be ashamed of me. Hmm… I guess Elias had a habit of accidentally befriending his perps."

"Not a very good cop then," Artorias quipped.

"No, he was good. He was just friendly. Didn't like long awkward silences, even with criminals." She frowned. "It's not wise for me to dwell on his memories. Gwynevere is enough for me."

"Why not?"

"It's…" she sighed, searching for the right words. "When Oz dies, his soul finds a new soul to latch onto and coexist with. The new host basically has a sentient being in his head, with its own memories and thoughts to help guide the new incarnation. But, no matter how much I try to separate them, Elias' memories are _my_ memories. Gwynevere's memories are _my_ memories. The voices in my head don't belong to anybody else. It's my voice. That scares me a little."

"What about Malgwyn?"

"Hmm?"

"If Malgwyn's lived hundreds more lives than you, shouldn't he be insane?"

"Depends. If he fails to distinguish past from present—and I don't imagine it'd be easy for him—then yes, he'd probably go insane." She frowned.

"So why'd you want to find him so badly?"

"Because he's my brother!" she snapped. She paused, sighed, and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Gwynevere and I are alike enough for the overlaps not to matter very much. Most of the time it's healthier for me to just embrace. It keeps the dysphoria at bay. But it's not perfect." She raised her scroll as the tunnel widened into a massive hall. "We're here."

Artorias entered.

The walls were, oddly enough, lined with shelves stacked with little balls. Thousands upon thousands of them, gathering dust and sand on top of each other. Some had, at some point in the distant past, fallen onto the floor, and Artorias knelt down to pick one up. Blowing the dust away, he realised that it was, in fact, a pearl. They all were pearls.

Alcoves in the walls held suits of segmented armour with horned helms and swords and spears clasped before them. Artorias looked up at them in wonder.

"This vault's been around since Old Oasis was a proper city," June said, "buried for thousands of years. After the war, Oz repurposed it to house the relic."

At the end of the hall, in the middle of a circular chamber, a golden brazier lay on the floor. The wall was lined with weapon-racks, though they were all empty, and behind the brazier was an anvil with a phrase inscribed on its surface:

 _Sunlight dreweth sword from flame,  
_ _And decideth the fate of him without name.  
_ _When you draweth sword from stone,  
_ _The fate of Remnant thou shalt know._

He peered closely at it, but June paid it no heed. "The brazier acts as a key to the relic's true location," she said. "To open the gate, set a fire in the brazier and douse it with your own blood."

"…you're joking."

"I'm afraid not, but it's not a demonstration for today, I think. As long as you know, right?" She stepped towards one of the armour stands. "Aren't you in need of armour?"

"Uh…"

"This armour belonged to a knight in Gwynevere's service. I think it's fitting."

"Well, the helmet wouldn't fit, what with the ears."

"The horns are hollow. Probably."

Artorias scowled, though it was more in jest than out of annoyance. "That's not true, and also not the point." Still, he glanced over the armour. He'd considered switching to plate anyway, and this, at least, he wouldn't have to pay for.

He'd keep his old pauldron, of course. And his cloak, and his shield-gauntlet. But those already suited the armour's style.

"You sure it's alright?"

"Nobody else is using it." June shrugged.

Artorias began to unstrap the armour from the stand. "Your semblance," Artorias said. "I'd be able to recognise that, right?"

"Mm-hmm. Semblances _evolve_ , sure, but they're bonded to the soul and shouldn't fundamentally change."

A long pause followed, filled only with the loosening of straps. "So…"

"You don't know my semblance?" June asked, an eyebrow raised.

"It never came up."

"I'm offended."

"Did you ever tell me?"

"I make a joke about it _every year_ at the orientation speech."

"Oh. I probably wasn't listening."

"No surprises there." She rolled her eyes. "The joke is always that if I can get where I am with such a useless semblance, surely all the first-years with their flashy semblances will be just fine. I can project my aura into a floating light. That's it. Nevermind the extra two lifetimes of knowledge, but… well, you get it."

Artorias looked at her, puzzled, then to the scroll in her hand. "So you lit the tunnel with your scroll because…?"

"I'd rather not waste my aura," she said, already heading back towards Shade.

"Not a good joke, but fair enough." He slung the armour over his shoulder; he'd put it on back in his dorm. Before he left, he cast his gaze around the hall one last time. "What happens now?"

"I don't know yet. I—probably we—need to have a long talk about that. Come on. I'll get you a drink."

/-/

First there was darkness.

Then a light shone in his eyes. The man tried to squint on instinct, but no eyelids came down to shield his gaze. Instead, the light dimmed after a second or two as his eyes adjusted. A face came in to view, round and unhealthily pale, with grey hair about the temples.

"Can you hear me?"

"Who?" Somehow, he knew that was his voice, though it somehow sounded wrong. Too deep. Hollow. Empty.

"Who is this?" somebody else asked. The man tried to turn his head to the voice's source, but found he could not.

"What do you remember?" asked the unhealthy old man.

The immobilised man tried to think, but nothing at all came to mind. His first memory was of darkness, and then the light in his eyes. "I don't."

"You don't?"

"I don't," he repeated. "I don't remember anything."

"Doctor Polendina, who is this?"

"Who's there?" the amnesiac asked.

"This is General Ironwood."

"I don't see him."

"Move freely," commanded the doctor.

A tension he hadn't realised he felt released in his limbs, and the amnesiac sprang to life, swinging his legs over the side of a table he hadn't realised he'd been lying on. The room about him was sterile and clean, if a little dark, and the man named General Ironwood was watching him curiously.

"You clearly remember language," the doctor said, frowning. "Try again. Does the name Gilderoy spark any memory for you?"

"What have you done?" the general whispered.

The amnesiac wracked his brain. "It does not."

The doctor's eyes glinted. "What about Penny?"

"I'm sorry. I don't know."

"Ornstein," said the general, with a hint of desperation. "Do you know the name Ornstein?"

It all came flooding back to him.

Ornstein scrambled away from the two men in front of him, trying to stammer out _something_ —an apology to Penny's father, a request for an explanation, _anything at all_ —but no words emerged. The sense of wrongness that had plagued him since he'd been woken up finally hit home. He could see, but couldn't blink. He could speak, but couldn't breathe.

"Stop!" commanded the doctor, and Ornstein's entire body became paralysed. He toppled backwards off the operating table, his golden metal arms creeping into the edge of his vision.

"I saved his soul, his heart, his kidneys—those weren't much use—but not much else," Doctor Polendina said, circling around the operating table towards him. He knelt down next to Ornstein, and his face filled his vision. "You took my daughter from me," his whispered. "This is your punishment."

"You can't do this, Polendina," said General Ironwood. "That is a _person_. You can't take his free will. Move freely, Mr Ornstein." Ornstein tried, but found himself unable.

"I can and I have. She was my _everything_ , James!"

"She was my friend," Ornstein said quietly, now cringing at the grating emptiness of his new voice.

"Shut it!" Polendina roared.

"We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Give him control of his own body, then leave. I'll give you a week to get yourself in order for old time's sake, then you're exiled from Atlas forever. What you have done is…" He rolled his right shoulder. "It's inhumane. This doesn't have to be a messy trial."

"And if it is, I can ruin you, James. All your shady business with Ozpin, all the secrecy with Lautrec… you can't touch me because I know too much, and you can't kill me or Ornstein will be stuck here forever."

James grimaced. "I'm asking you as a friend. He does not deserve this. Nobody deserves this."

"Perhaps not, but I will not give him up." Polendina deflated a little, then pushed himself upright. "Give the Vordt thing to somebody else. I'll be back at work in a week. If you fire me, Ornstein stays here forever." He made for the door, turning off the lights as he went.

Ironwood's right hand clenched so tightly that Ornstein heard the metal groaning. "I'll get you out of here," the general murmured. "I promise."

Then he was gone, and Ornstein was left alone on the floor as the darkness closed in.

* * *

 **Yes, Ornstein's alive, and Ironwood's taking his side over Polendina's. Flawed or not, Ironwood's a good guy who sometimes makes bad choices, and he wouldn't be on board for such blatant enslavement. Besides, they can relate to each other through the more-machine-than-man thing.**

 **Meanwhile, Polendina is shaping up to be a villain for the Atlas arc. Obviously under normal circumstances I doubt he'd go mad-scientist, but love is a crazy thing and Penny was both his life's work and his family. Losing her broke something that nothing can fix.**

 **Ruby kinda gets the short end of the stick in Volumes 4 and 5. They try to push the 'inspiring hero' angle a lot, but only rarely the whole 'my friends died' thing, and she's got a couple of other problems besides. I'm trying to mesh the two together a bit. She doesn't know what Pyrrha died to achieve except for stopping Cinder, but Beacon was overrun afterwards and Cinder got away. Deep down, she thinks that Pyrrha died achieving nothing, as a failed hero, and she feels guilty for thinking that about her friend. She struggles to understand that there's no shame in dying for nothing. That's how most people die. Now, her trip to Mistral is just as much a search for purpose in Pyrrha's death as it is a search for Cinder.**

 **Of course, as long as mama Yang is with her, she's never going to _really_ leave the nest...**

 **Back in Vacuo, there's a long-ass exposition dump from June. It still wasn't even the entire story. She has her reasons for keeping the rest of it back, of course. Artorias finally picks up the classic armour (more-or-less) sans helm, and Gough gets properly angry... Kind of. He's in a weird spot right now, because I'm worried about trivialising his physical and emotional recovery, but also don't want to invalidate his calmness and his loving nature.**

 **And, I've said this before (but just to reiterate): I've been running with the idea that the Maidens aren't needed to access the relics for a long time, and I'm kind of locked into it. Sorry if that little conflict with canon confuses people.**

* * *

 **Tonight's omake is a draft of the foreword to _The Gospel of Lapp_ , which (credit where credit is due) is heavily inspired by _The Gospel of Loki_ by Joanne Harris.**

Omake: Foreword

It was not so long ago that I was a man without a name and without a memory. I have no desire ever to return to that state.

A man without a name may take a name for himself, and so I took the name Lapp. What does Lapp mean? Why did I choose it? These are both valid questions, and ones to which I don't know the answer. Perhaps it's a name I heard long ago and have long since forgotten, and which no restoration of memory can remind me. Perhaps I liked the sound. It doesn't sound _bad_ , after all. Lapp: a gentle roll of the tongue followed by the harsh _pop_ of the lips.

Lapp is me, and I am Lapp.

But I am many things besides, though I once forgot. I am Patches. I am the Hyena and the Spider. I am the great Trickster. Trusty Patches, the traitor of Anor Londo. I am friend to rats and foe to snakes. I began without knowledge, and—ostensibly—without knowledge will I end.

And I touched the dwindling flame.

I am all of these things, and I will always be these things.

In memory of my time without memory—and to remind me should I ever lose it again—I write this: _The Gospel of Lapp_ , an account of the world's humble beginnings. Not that it's the _first_ such account:

 _From flame came man,  
and from man came Dust.  
Hear this tale, o_ _' Lord of Vale,  
I speak it as I must._

So begins the Prophecy of Remnant as told by the locust preacher, covering (in more stanzas than I care to count) the history of Remnant from the advent of fire to 'the Red Hood cometh'. The prophecy is—in a roundabout way—the basis for the religion the small folk (being the poor death-ridden mortals of this world) call the Faith of the Lords, which is exactly the kind of pretentious name for a religion I can imagine Gwyn coming up with. Stories change over time, of course, and the small folk have such short lifespans it's a miracle their stories have remained intact for all this time, though the prophecy itself is lost to their memory. Instead, they have a book. A _holy_ book, if you'd believe it, and it smells like Oz from cover to cover. We'll mockingly call it the Official Version, as is my wont.

The Official Version of events is… lacking. Oz, for whatever reason, chose to leave out everything about Mantle. He always held Gwyn's word in far higher esteem than it deserved, I suppose. He also left out _me_ , which is nigh unforgivable.

I happen to know the truth of the matter, having been there. Well, I know as much of it as anyone _can_ know. What makes a hit or a myth has very little to do with a story's content, but rather _how_ it's told and by _whom_. That's what I'm told and so that's I'd like to think. It validates me.

Of course, the Faith of the Lords is not the only such religion on Remnant. The small folk have plenty of theories as to how we came to be and/or of how we (or they, or both of us) came to be in Remnant. Oz always liked the idea of two deific brothers. I don't put much stock in it personally, though the relics seem to support the notion that we're more than just a cosmic accident. Others believe that the first men were born of the blood of Grimm. It's certainly possible, though I doubt it. Grimm still die regularly, and their blood doesn't do a damn thing.

Ah, but listen to _this_ one. Then there are the utter maniacs who believe Aldrich to be a prophet. _Aldrich_ , of all people. If you happen to be one of those idiots, I can only advise you to at _least_ not follow in his footsteps. It's not worth ruining your figure just to (kinda) live forever, sweetie.

My point is this: despite the oh-so-generous gift granted to me, I do not know everything. But I will tell you (or me, or whoever reads this) what I _do_ know.

Logic dictates that sticks and stones are better building blocks for our world, but time has taught me that words are the faster (and lazier) method. I am Patches, and I am Lapp: Trusty, Unbreakable, the handsome (and oh-so-modest) teller of this particular list of leather-bound lies. As you should with everything, take it with a pinch of salt, but this is at least as true as Oz's Official Version. It's also a lot more entertaining, at least by my standards, and I'll have you know my taste is _impeccable_ , thank you very much.

I guess there's nothing more to it. From flame came man...


	44. Chapter 43: Behind Closed Doors

_The King of Mantle staggered to his feet, spitting sand from his mouth and shaking sand from his clothes and wiping sand from his eyes with the back of his hand. Ahead, atop a shallow dune, lay the silver knight's shield wall, glistening spears poking between the heavy metal._

 _He looked to his men and drew his swordspear._

" _On me!" he roared, and charged up the dune._

"Why do _you_ think this is happening?"

Oscar threw the heavy sack of grain onto the pile. "That's what I'm asking _you_ ," he said.

"And I don't know." The blonde woman hopped down from the bale of hay atop which she'd sat. "I literally cannot help you. I'm less real than Ozpin."

"Funny. It feels like it's the other way around." Oscar wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm and glanced out of the barn. The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, and just in time. That was the last of the harvest. "At least he's shut up. Do you think he's gone?"

"Oh? I thought this was 'all in your head'," she teased.

Oscar scowled. "Hypothetically. If he's… if he's _real_ , do you think he's gone? If he _can_ be gone?"

"Lords be kind, yes." She rubbed her chin thoughtfully. "Is that what you want, though?"

"Not you too. You know, I could have gotten used to you. He's a royal pain, but you're—"

"Not quite royal." She reached behind her for a hat that hadn't been there before and put it on, tugging it down over her face. "You want something more than this, Oscar. More than farming. Not that that's a high bar."

"…so this is what it's like to have an imaginary friend, I guess." Oscar said.

From beneath her hat, the woman smirked.

Oscar made for the barn door. Supper was surely almost ready. He still had to wash up from the day's work. But, before he left, he paused to look back at her. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Is this for Ozpin?"

"An imaginary friend needs a name."

She removed her hat again. Oscar was startled to see a silvery scar marring the left side of her face.

"Name me for yourself."

Oscar frowned, confused. "I _was_ kidding, you know. I'm probably just schizophrenic or… something." That was a sobering thought. Not that he hadn't thought it before, but saying it out loud scared him a little.

"And surprisingly calm about it," she noted. A breeze Oscar couldn't feel swept through the barn, sweeping her hair backwards messily. "Your curiosity is probably the most real thing about your 'schizophrenia or something'. Joke or not, as long as I'm just your 'imaginary friend', as you so kindly put it, names are your responsibility. I'm not real, Oscar, so go ahead." She laced her hands behind her head. "Name me."

Oscar sighed, then fell into his thoughts. A name… any old name would do, surely. Something simple, like… "Lucatiel," he said, not sure why he'd said it. He didn't know what kind of name it was, but it definitely wasn't simple. "Or maybe not," he backtracked. "Would you prefer—I don't know…"

And then it came to him. "Your name is Lucatiel," he said. "Knight of Mirrah. You fought for Vale in the Great War. And… you're more than that."

She smiled crookedly. "I'm just a memory."

" _But you remember now. Don't you? You know why we must leave, Oscar."_

"I prefer the imaginary friend, thank you very much," Oscar growled.

" _Oscar—"_

"Always with the 'must', Ozpin," Lucatiel said, shaking her head in disgust. "Do not forget, Oscar, that you are your own master." When next Oscar blinked, she was gone.

" _I know it's hard to accept, Oscar."_

"I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know what you want."

" _Try."_

Oscar did. He sought that lost train of thought that had brought him to the name Lucatiel, and when he found it, a name alighted on his tongue. "Priscilla…" He shook his head. "What do you want from _me_?"

" _Let's not get ahead of ourselves."_ Ozpin sounded rueful. _"A little more recent, perhaps. Beacon?"_

An image flickered through Oscar's mind of amber eyes and dark hair and of lights flashing in the darkness.

" _Cinder Fall, allegedly hailing from Mistral. Professor Lionheart's loyalty is in question; I am needed at Haven."_

Oscar could _feel_ him now, in the back of his mind, like a headache so mild that he'd grown accustomed to it but that he could now no longer ignore. _Lionheart_ … a memory began to lazily drift through Oscar's mind. He saw an aging man in a greatcoat checking his pocketwatch.

Oscar blinked. He'd never seen that man before in his life.

"You really are in my head, aren't you?"

" _Sometimes to my misfortune, yes. I am real."_ If headaches could sigh, this one did. _"Your—how'd you put it—schizophrenia is right, I suppose. I cannot force you to do this. But I have a responsibility, and now so do you. Are you going to turn away from it?"_

"I'm not ready." This was all… overwhelming. More images, more memories danced on his closed eyelids. A girl with silver eyes, a maimed King Taijitu, a crown lying in blood-soaked sand. He tried to follow it, derive meaning from it, but it all passed him by too quickly.

" _You're more capable than you think. I can help you."_

Oscar reached back into Ozpin's—into _his_ memories. This time, it came clearer. He saw a sword that glowed with pale moonlight and a dark-haired woman whose eyes had been set ablaze. Fear gripped his heart. Every time he recalled it, he saw more, felt more, remembered more. His arms itched, his scalp itched, his legs itched, and he squirmed on the spot, trying to rid himself of the painful sensation until, with a jolt, his knees gave out beneath him and he fell to the ground. He was hot all over, and the world was going dark, and—

" _Oscar!"_

He was in the barn. He was on his aunt's farm. And he was safe, if not entirely sane.

"What was that?" he whispered.

" _Death. Mine. Ours. Best not to dwell on it."_

Oscar breathed out heavily. The air was cool and still. The first snow of the year was beginning to fall outside. "I'm not ready," he repeated. "I'd be a madman to travel in winter anyway."

" _Our enemies won't wait out the winter. Neither should we."_

"You can't change my mind."

Silence. Oscar could sense his frustration, but, after a moment, he relented. _"Very well."_

/-/

Intimidation had always come easily to Winter. It was a simple matter, after all—all she had to do was summon the biggest, most frightening Grimm in her arsenal.

"There's a meeting!" The arsonist tried to scramble away from her, but met the alley walls. She almost rolled her eyes. It wasn't like she was going to kill him. They'd taken so long to find one who hadn't killed themselves. "At the old hall, on third street. We're all supposed to meet there tomorrow night. Hear the leader speak."

"The leader?" Winter idly scratched the summoned King Taijitu's nose. Its heads were almost as wide as she was tall, and its forked tongues rattled near the arsonist's face.

The arsonist gulped. "I don't know anything else," he said. "The leader gives us our orders."

"I assume there's a dress code. Mask? Uniform?" Her gaze shifted from the summoned Grimm to the frightened boy pressed against the wall. "You understand I'll be infiltrating this meeting of yours, of course. Any details you give could lead to a more lenient sentence."

"No mask," he said, shaking his head. "Leather glove. Left hand. Scratch a symbol into it—an isosceles triangle with a curved line under it—and rub dust on it. Burn dust."

An odd symbol. It was clear enough—what with the willing suicides—that this was some sort of cult, competent or not, and Winter knew well enough that cults loved their symbolism. "What does it mean?" she asked.

"Fire. Cleansing. The church is corrupt. That's what they tell us. Sulyvahn is just the tip of the iceberg."

Winter waved a hand to silence him. She didn't need to hear this. "Someone will come to pick you up soon," she said, cuffing him to a drainpipe.

"You're leaving me here?"

"I'm a specialist, not a beat cop."

/-/

"A bar? Really?"

"You'd be surprised. People don't eavesdrop as much as you'd think. They're busy doing other stuff, you know? Namely drinking." June gestured for Artorias to head to a booth. "I'll shout the first round."

"Cheers."

It was already late in the afternoon, and the bar was quite busy, but not packed. The late hour had surprised Artorias when they'd emerged from the vault; the walk there and back had taken longer than he'd thought.

Drinking on an empty stomach probably wasn't his best idea, he thought to himself, but it certainly wasn't his worst.

June set a drink in front of him and sat across from him. Artorias eyed the other patrons a little warily.

"Seriously. Don't worry about it." June sipped at her gin. "Qrow and I have discussed _far_ more sensitive topics here, and nothing bad has yet come of it."

"Qrow?" It shouldn't have surprised him, but he'd never really considered that they were all part of the same… what could he even call it? Cult? Organisation? Movement?

"Well, not _here_ exactly, but at a bar, yeah. You said he's going east?"

"Mm-hmm. With Ruby and Yang and their team." He paused to take a drink. "His nieces' team," he explained."

"I'm familiar." She frowned and idly tapped the rim of her glass with the fourth finger of her right hand. "He didn't tell them about… all this, did he?"

"Well, when I say _with_ …" Artorias recalled the plan they'd come up with back in Vale. Qrow was setting them on the path east and trailing behind.

June snorted. "Just like him. Mistral's covered, then. And Vengarl went to Atlas, you said? That's strange. He hates it there."

"Yeah. He didn't seem happy about it, but he insisted." Artorias shrugged. "I wanted to go instead. No offence, but I was worried I'd be stuck in Vacuo if I came here."

"And you still might be."

"Ha-ha," he deadpanned. "But Qrow said he had to be the one to see Leo, and Vengarl said it's gotta be him up north—something about the council—so here I am."

"And Vale?" June asked. "Glynda and Bart are still there, right?"

"Bart?"

"Dr. Oobleck."

"Oh. Is he in on this too? I had no idea."

"No, but he's observant. Unless Vale's still the primary focus for… well, for _her_ , they should be able to keep a lid on things."

"Why does she even _want_ the relics, or the maidens, or… whatever else there might be?" He pursed his lips in thought. "Salem, I mean," he clarified.

"We locked her in a pocket prison for thousands of years. What do you think?"

"Petty vengeance?" Artorias rolled his eyes and raised his glass. "Nice."

"Oh, don't toast that."

He drained his drink and slammed the empty glass back to the table. "Y'know, I've-"

"Artorias?" He heard a voice call his name from near the door. It was familiar, though oddly stilted and slurred. He turned in his seat.

Ciaran stood at the door, and she was smiling broadly.

He found that… strange.

She stepped towards their booth, staggering a little, then sat next to him. "Hey, Professor. I was jussht… hey Wolfy, I took your advice!"

Her breath smelled of alcohol. "I can tell. You're not alone, are you? Solo pub crawls aren't all that fun, you know? Or, well, _safe_?"

"Says you." She poked a finger into his chest so hard he almost fell. "You were drinking for like… two weeks straight. Three weeks?" She leaned in and narrowed her eyes at his glass. After a moment's contemplation, they widened. "Sshaint Aldir… Aldright's teeth, you're _still_ drunk."

"I've had one drink today, C. And it was only a few days," he added, nodding to June. She raised a sceptical eyebrow. "And you _know_ you shouldn't take my advice, C. I have the worst ideas, every time, all the time."

"But it's working! I haven't thought about- about Beacon in like…" she counted on her fingers. "Two hours! Or Gough and his eyes, or…" she slumped down in her chair. "Dammit." She reached for Artorias' glass, and her face scrunched up when she realised it was empty. "Dammit," she repeated.

"Here." June pushed her own glass across the table. "Try this."

Ciaran complied.

"What are you doing?" Artorias hissed.

"It helped you, didn't it?" June said, shrugging.

"How are you a teacher?"

"Qrow's worse."

He couldn't deny that.

Ciaran put the glass back down, her fingers fumbling a little. "Thankssh… thanks, Teach." She pushed herself upright, shakily. "Next round's on me!"

"Yay…" Artorias cheered half-heartedly, then leaned across the table. "I swear I didn't recommend this to her. _Totally_ not my fault."

"And I definitely believe you," June said, her voice dripping sarcasm. "It's not necessarily a bad thing. Everyone needs to grieve, and I can't imagine Gough's made it easy for her. Just keep an eye on her." She leaned in too, her voice dropping. "It's one thing to talk shop with random drunks around, but not with her at the table. I'll have another drink then take my leave, I think."

"Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow." She nodded, then took the proffered drink as Ciaran returned.

"Way cooler than Goodwitssh," Ciaran slurred out, pointing finger-guns at June and falling into her seat.

"Very low bar," June noted dryly.

Ciaran snickered and pushed another drink into Artorias' hands. "To… uh… to the bartender who gave me this for free!"

"Did he really?" Artorias raised an eyebrow.

"Maybe. I don't remember, but it'd be cool if he did. Did I just rob the bartender?"

"Most likely not," June said. Regardless, she raised her glass in toast, then drank. Her face soured a little as it went down. "What even is this?"

"Dunno. Not sure he understood my order."

Artorias sniffed at his drink. He couldn't quite place it either.

Despite herself, June shrugged, then downed her drink in one go, slamming the empty glass back down on the table with a gasp and a grimace. "Bloody hell," she said, once she'd recovered a little. She stood up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Think it's time to take my leave. Artorias, drink responsibly. Ciaran…might be a bit too far gone. Take care of her."

"Great. Responsibility. That always goes so well for me."

June looked back at him as she passed through the doorway, rolling her eyes. Then she was gone.

/-/

It was with some mild trepidation that Doctor Arthur Watts stepped into the office of General James Ironwood. Surely his true purpose had not already been revealed—he'd been very careful about that. Nobody in Atlas knew of his allegiance to Salem. Nobody _could_. But there was still a small doubt at the back of his mind that he couldn't quite shake.

"Doctor Watts," the general greeted, rising from his chair and crossing the room to shake his hand. "It's been some time. Thank you for meeting me at such short notice."

That was promising. No outward hostility. Perhaps his concerns were unfounded. "The pleasure is mine, General Ironwood."

The general offered him a seat across his desk. It was somehow even less comfortable than the seats in Salem's hall. "How goes the campaign?" the general asked.

Arthur suppressed a frown. Was this the only reason he'd been called? Political small-talk? He'd suspected his resurfacing in Atlas after so many years would cause a stir. He hated to be disappointed. "Well enough," he hedged. "Miss Farron continues to pull ahead in the polls, despite her inexperience, but there are still some months until the vote."

"The attacks in Irithyll certainly are making a huntress seem an appealing candidate," the general mused. "I've sent one of my best specialists to oversee the investigation. The perpetrators should be apprehended within days."

"Good to hear." Arthur reached across the desk for the coffee pot. "May I?"

"Where are my manners? Of course." Ironwood reached to pour it for him. "I've been somewhat distracted of late. I apologise." The coffee came out as a dark, viscous substance. While Arthur did the courteous thing and sipped at it, he immediately regretted it. Ironwood's taste in coffee was certainly wanting. "Enough small-talk, I think. I have a favour to ask of you," the general said.

"Oh? Is your arm acting up, General? I'd be happy to take a look at it."

"I appreciate the offer, Doctor, but no. One of my specialists was killed at the fall of Beacon. I was hoping you'd be able to perform the autopsy."

"The fall of Beacon?" Arthur raised an eyebrow. "That was some weeks ago. Why come to me? Surely there are others more suited the role."

"The specialist in question is Vordt Borealis." General Ironwood passed a thick file over the desk. Arthur glanced over it. The first page had a few photographs of the man and a brief overview of his history and education; Arthur assumed the rest of the file was dedicated to missions he'd undertaken for Atlas. Across the page was a photo of the monstrous thing Vordt had become—a creature of twisted metal and flesh. "I strongly suspect it to be an affliction of the soul. Your study of souls is second only to Doctor Polendina's, and he is… indisposed. Vordt was assisting the traitor, Sulyvahn, in the last days of his life. I want to know the cause of his condition, and I want to know if his shift in allegiance was voluntary or caused by his condition."

Sulyvahn? Suddenly, this was looking more appealing. "I will, of course, want to ask a favour in return." Watts said.

"Of course. Ask."

Arthur weighed his options. He had enough funding. Political support would be nice, but not necessary. But there was one thing… it'd be a risk to ask, but he decided to take a little risk. "There's a painting in your possession, given to Atlas by Beacon when the academy first opened its doors. I want private access to it. One hour at most."

Ironwood frowned. "Sulyvahn also had his eye on it. I'm afraid until his reasoning is made clear, I'd rather not share it. Why does it interest you?"

"In the first year of my absence from Atlas, I lived in a little town in the mountains between Vacuo and Vale," Arthur began. He was almost certain that there was a file about him, and every good lie was laced with truth. Best not to stray too far from it, else he'd raise suspicion. Well—more suspicion. "On the outskirts of this town—New Londo, if I recall—lived this hermit-type. He sought… how'd he put it? Inner peace, I believe. He seemed to be doing a decent job. The Grimm hardly gave him another thought."

"Your point?"

"The hermit was something of a painter," Arthur said, and here the lie began. "It calmed him, or so he claimed. Inner peace—or what have you—was hardly my forte, and neither was painting as it happened, but I did develop an interest in the art, if not the skills. Legend has it that there are long-lost techniques in this painting of yours. Something dust-related, I believe. I wish to study it, and perhaps learn to recreate the specific technique. It would go a long way to preserving our culture. And, I'll admit that as a man of science, the application of dust alone has piqued my interest."

The general's impressive jaw set firmly. His eyes narrowed, digging deep into Arthur's own. Then he nodded sharply, once. "Once Sulyvahn's interest in it is ascertained, I'll make the arrangements. Until then, I can't risk evidence being tampered with. Is that acceptable?"

"He's missing. If he's not dead, the likelihood of his return to Atlas is minimal, to say the least," Arthur said, though he knew the pontiff's fate. "How do you intend to learn his motives if you cannot find him?"

"Leave that to me, Doctor. But I see your problem. You could be waiting a while." He regarded Arthur coolly. "Two months at most. If nothing turns up by then, I'll allow it with very heavy supervision."

"Supervision is acceptable," Arthur said. Could it really be this easy? All he needed was access after all—though he'd rather not compromise his political position, once he had the relic he doubted anyone could stop his escape. It would be a minor setback for Salem, of course, but he felt that the benefit of a relic far outweighed the drawback of political fallout.

"Report to the morgue tomorrow at ten. I'll have you supervised for the autopsy as a precaution, but don't be alarmed. You're not technically in my employ, so it's only protocol."

"Of course." Arthur rose and, and the two men shook hands.

"Good luck with your campaign."

"And good luck with your investigation."

Though normally composed, Arthur could barely mask his grin as he returned to his home in the city. One little favour…

His thoughts turned to the little poppet in the hidden compartment of his desk.

 _It really is too easy._

/-/

"Run!"

Vengarl's voice carried over the blizzard. Jaune fled deeper into the blizzard, knowing that the old man would follow close behind.

A chill ran down Jaune's spine, and, briefly, he saw a faint flicker of snow being kicked up as if by claws. "Left!" he roared, trusting his instincts. Vengarl came barrelling through the snow, then ducked down and swung outwards; his blade connected with the belly of the strange, feline Grimm. It fell to the side and rolled away, disappearing into the thick snowfall.

"Go, go!" Jaune ushered Vengarl ahead of him, Crocea Mors expanding from sheath to shield as he saw another figure come leaping out of the blizzard. He caught it on his shield and threw it behind him, but when he went to follow up with his blade it had already disappeared. Cursing, Jaune fled after Vengarl.

"I see it!" he heard Ren call. "The gate!"

Jaune saw it too, after a few more steps. It loomed through the storm, grey walls of stone and steel. As he drew closer he saw the dark teeth of a raised portcullis and, when he came closer still, he saw an Atlesian soldier in the gatehouse, beckoning for them to pass through.

Nora laughed as she and Ren dashed through the gate. "We made it!"

"Behind!" one of the guards yelled. Jaune spun, swinging wildly—too soon, for his blade lashed harmlessly past the open maw of one of the Grimm before it had even leapt. The familiar sound of Ren's guns cut through the storm, and sparks erupted on the boneplate on the Grimm's face, sending it howling back into the darkness.

Vengarl grabbed him by the collar and tossed him bodily through the gate, following seconds later. The guards dropped the portcullis on one of the Grimm as it tried to follow, crushing its skull. Black blood spilt onto the snow.

Beneath the gatehouse, all was still. Beyond, the world was white: white snow in the air and white snow in the ground and white bone and teeth and claws lurking beyond. The specks denoting red eyes faded away as Jaune watched. The Grimm were pulling back.

"What were those?" he panted out.

"Stalkers, my guess," Ren said. "Unique to Solitas. Only Grimm that can really survive the cold." Catching a confused look from Nora, he continued, "I listened to Port sometimes."

Jaune nodded, more to himself than to his team. "What's next?" he asked, looking to Vengarl.

Vengarl did not respond. He leaned heavily against the wall of the gatehouse, half-slumped, his eyes wide and bloodshot and one hand clutching at his chest over his heart.

"Vengarl?"

His head turned towards Jaune, but his eyes seemed to see straight through him.

One of the guards came rushing down from the gatehouse, emerging from a narrow door set in the wall. "Thank god, you all made it," he said, laughing when he saw them all alive. "I'd say welcome to Mantle, but I doubt I can trump a welcome like that."

Vengarl scrambled to his feet, reaching for his weapon and pointing it at the guard. "Back!"

A flurry of movement. The guard's smile was wiped from his face and he primed his gun. Ren laid a hand on Vengarl's shoulder. Jaune's hand flew to his hilt, though he was unsure against whom he'd draw his weapon. "Put the weapon down, sir," the guard said.

"Vengarl?" Jaune said. He saw a wave of pale energy flow from Ren's hand. His semblance washed over the old man, and his muscles loosened.

"…right." He blinked and shook his head. "My… apologies. It's been a long journey."

"Sir, I'll need to see some papers."

"We're huntsmen. Here." Jaune flashed his scroll to the guard.

Tentatively, the guard lowered his weapon. "Make sure the old man doesn't cause any trouble."

Vengarl, half in a daze, nodded, and the guard let them pass into the city. As soon as they were out of earshot, Jaune directed the group into an alley, dragging Vengarl with him.

"What was that?"

"It won't happen again. I am… tired. Distracted. I apologise." He spoke softly, and Jaune had a hard time hearing him over the blizzard. "We should find a place to stay."

"Looked a far cry worse than 'distracted'," Nora pointed out.

"Leave him be," Ren advised. "We need to rest, at least for the day."

Jaune nodded slowly. He could tell Vengarl had more in his mind, but agreed not to push it—unless it happened again. "Fine."

/-/

"How'd your head get so…"

Ciaran trailed off. Artorias paused, half-carrying her, in Shade's central courtyard to wait for her to continue. "Hmm?" he prompted when she did not.

"I'll remember in a… _hic!_ In a sec."

Artorias smiled and shook his head. "Y'know, I've never been so drunk that you've had to help me back to the dorm."

"Never remembered it," she corrected. "There was that one time after, I dunno, I think it was—oh, that makes sense. After Quill."

A chill ran down Artorias' spine. It was partly from the subject, but mostly because of the biting cold. He'd forgotten how low the temperatures could drop on Vacuan nights. "Downer topic. Move on."

"Right! Oh, that was it. How'd you learn to—with your brain—smart?"

"Gods above, you're wasted."

She sniffed at him. "So are you."

"I'm just tipsy… maybe drunk. But compared to you, I'm as sober as Goodwitch." He hauled her up the steps into the dorm block. Their room was a few flights of stairs up still. He wasn't sure how they'd handle that.

"See, like, when I… smart stuff, when I do that, I have to do study. Lots of study. How… _hic!_ Lazy you, lazy wolf-man, how haven't you… expelled? Dropped out? Flunked?"

"Cause I'm a no-good faunus? I didn't think you were a racist drunk, C," he teased.

"Pssh. You'll forgive me."

"What if I don't?"

"Don't be like that. You already know I think you're the worsssssht. Because that's you. The… the baddest." She shoved him as they reached the stairwell, and, despite how gentle the push was, he stumbled a little and braced himself against the wall, taking her with him. She laughed. "I _am_ sorry though. Don't mean to… you know."

"Just messing with you. It's fine."

"Gods, we're not ready for more stairs," she said, sighing and slumping against the wall. Then her eyes widened, and, in a flurry of movement, she scampered closer to jab a finger into his chest. "Maybe _you're_ the racist! You with your… wolf knight. Was that it? Why not, like, the…" She squinted, trailing off.

"The what?"

"The tall knight," she said. Her face lit up in a proud grin. "Yeah. That. No race stuff. Just a… cool title. Well, not _really_ that cool, but— pfft. You get it."

"I'm not that tall. Wouldn't make much sense."

"Taller than me. Taller than I? Doesn't have to be that exactly. Just something _like_ that."

"I dunno." Artorias shrugged. "I guess it felt… good. Empowering, maybe?" He wiggled his ears. "They never really gave me much trouble, but I was always the odd one out at Flare… and then here too, a little. Ana's the only other faunus in our year, you know? But she can hide it pretty well. I mean, most people don't notice a forked tongue. I stand out because…well, because 'wolf'. And I've come to own that."

Ciaran smiled at him. "I really _am_ sorry. About calling you the lazy wolf-man."

"Still not a problem, and you're also not wrong," he laughed, pushing himself upright and reaching down a hand to help her up, ignoring the little rush of dizziness brought on by the alcohol and the late hour. "Ready?"

She looked up, her eyes narrowing a little as she considered it. "Nup. Too many stairs. Nope. No more walking tonight." She reached up to him. "Just carry me?"

Ciaran let out a little yelp as he picked her up. "What… what're you doing?"

"…you asked me to?"

"It was a joke!"

"You want me to leave you at the bottom of the stairs?"

She paused, and seemed to consider it for a second, then crossed her arms. "Fine." She yawned. "You _may_ help me up these many stairs."

"Very gracious of you."

By the time he reached their floor, she was fast asleep.

Despite himself, Artorias smiled, and carried her into the dorm to tuck her in. He moved as quietly as he was able, trying not to disturb Gough. As he was removing his boots, Gough shifted, then sat up in bed.

"Morning," Gough said.

"It's still midnight," Artorias whispered. "Sorry about waking you up."

"Oh."

The silence was total and uncomfortable.

"I tried baking cookies earlier," Gough said. "But I couldn't tell the difference between salt and sugar. They turned out… salty, to say the least."

"You didn't try tasting the ingredients?"

He fell silent. "Didn't think of it at the time." Gough's shoulders slumped. "I didn't want to lash out at you earlier, Artorias. But… it's hard. I'm just trying to live how I always lived, and I can't. I needed someone to take it out on."

Artorias sighed. "Look, Gough, I don't know what you deserve exactly, but it definitely involves a better friend than me. I don't have an excuse—not a good one, at least. But I'm sorry. Forgive me?"

"Don't. Not yet." Gough sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't want to tell you I can't."

"You just did."

"Aye. I did."

A half-hearted bark of laughter escaped Artorias. "What's the deal with the shooting anyway? I hate to break it to you, but you'll never be as good a shot as you were before."

"I need to be. Adam Taurus killed my brother." Gough's jaw clenched. "I need to be better again."

"So it's not just for the sake of it?" Gough nodded his assent. "You're going after him?"

"I want to."

"I don't want to be the bad guy, Gough, but this is for your own good, alright? You can't."

"But I want to."

A long sigh escaped Artorias, and he felt his eyelids trying to shut. He wasn't sure of the exact time, but he was sure he was exhausted. "I need to sleep," he told Gough. "I… look, don't do anything stupid, alright? Not without me."

"Then don't leave me behind."

Artorias winced at the barb, but the booze and exhaustion was hitting him now like a truck and he couldn't find it in him to argue. "Night, Gough."

The massive man snorted, then lay down.

/-/

For the first time in many years, Artorias remembered one of his dreams.

Wind bit at his skin in an endless void. He was falling.

A desert appeared below him, and he landed heavily on his back.

Dusting sand off himself, he stood. Peering through the sandstorm, he saw that Old Oasis lay in ruins on the horizon. "Ozpin?" he called, wondering if the Ringed City could be visited through dreams. Perhaps Ozpin had escaped here?

Ozpin, if he were in earshot, did not deign to reply.

Artorias scowled and turned, looking for anything or anybody that could help him. In the distance, he saw a man with no legs clawing its way through the sands towards him. "The Red Hood comes to eat us!" rasped the man.

Artorias, in a flash, found himself next to the man, reaching down with both hands to help him.

The man grabbed him by the left hand, and pain shot up the arm. Artorias recoiled in shock, and the man cackled with laughter. Stumbling backwards, the pain almost unbearable, Artorias fell into the sand. The ring on his right hand slipped from his finger and floated before him, weightlessly turning like a cog in a machine.

Blood dripped from a wound that had opened in his left arm. Fire spread across the sky.

* * *

 **The main issue I came across writing this chapter is that very little is happening. At this point, it's just a mixture of various factions scheming. It has its entertainment value, but that value is quite limited. I feel I'm pushing that limit right now.**

 **The issue is that there aren't as many plot threads worth pursuing as it might appear. RWBY+Qrow is basically a retread of V4 with some different characters, but providing no room for character growth until Yang has to decide between her team and her mother (which is a while off). JNR+Vengarl is delayed while I build a political climate around Watts/Farron/Royce/Ironwood, which is a slow process (though Vengarl gives me some stuff to tide it over until then). That leaves GWIN to drive the plot. Gilderoy is heavily reliant on the Atlas plot, Ciaran has never been more than a supporting character (unfortunately), and Gough is physically incapacitated, which leaves Artorias to drive things.**

 **But, looking back, Artorias has never been a huge driver of the plot. He believes in people more than ideologies-the biggest independent move he's made in the story so far is the stuff with Quill, which is more about Artorias' daddy issues than it is about the White Fang (and was technically before the story's beginning besides). Without any personal stakes, he'd drift through life. Here, for example, he'd be June's guard dog and little more. And that's boring.**

 **I _could_ have June spoonfeed him a goal with very little motivation, which would speed things along but would ultimately make the story suffer for it. Instead I'm developing a different angle, which should come to fruition next chapter at which point I can push the plot along to actually _do something._**


	45. Chapter 44: Departure

**I've been sitting on (most of) this for a while. At this point it's not something I'm going to improve without an extensive restructuring of the chapter. I'm more-or-less satisfied about the quality of the prose, I'm just miffed about the structuring and pacing. It _does_ finally get the last few arcs moving, though, so it'll hopefully be easier to pace stuff going forwards. Anyway... enjoy.**

* * *

"Well, I can hold for another hour, but it's a small window. The storms are rolling in again tonight."

Jaune nodded his understanding. The pilot headed back to the ship's cockpit and closed the door behind him.

"Did Vengarl say when he'd be back?" Nora asked.

"Five minutes ago," Ren said. "We can't leave without him."

"It's two weeks on foot. We'd be too slowed down." Jaune grimaced in frustration and ran a hand through his hair. "Ren, check with the local police. After his episode yesterday I'm not sure he's kept out of trouble. Nora, try to weasel some more time out of the pilot. I'll just... wander around. Try to find him. Meet back here in fifty minutes."

Nods of agreement. They all parted ways. Though the storm had abated, most of the streets were still covered in a thick layer of snow. Jaune tried calling the old man's scroll has he walked to no avail.

He could certainly guess where he'd gone, more or less. It was easy to tell which parts of the city were older—the architectural style gave it away—and it was likely that Vengarl was caught up in the past again.

The buildings around him turned older, great grey stone buildings with worn-down tiled rooves. Jaune tried calling again. Vengarl didn't respond, but he heard the scroll buzzing.

He followed the sound. At the end of the city block he found that the next lot was a graveyard. Vengarl had left his pack—and his scroll—by its entrance graveyard.

"Vengarl?" he called.

No response.

 _Well… that's ominous._

A single set of tracks led deeper between the graves and Jaune tentatively followed them. He found the old man standing before a simple headstone, a single slab of rock with a name and epitaph carved into it.

 _Lucatiel_

 _Home has never felt so foreign._

There was no date written on it.

"You never talk about her," Jaune said quietly.

Vengarl sighed. His breath turned to mist in front of him. Some light snowfall had settled on his shoulders, and at the movement some of it fell away. Jaune wondered if he'd been here all day.

"I miss retirement," Vengarl grumbled, rising to his feet.

"And yet you accepted the council's call?"

"And Ozpin's. More's the pity." He dusted the snow off him, and a shiver ran down his spine. "I've never felt so old."

"Well, you're always at your oldest."

Vengarl nodded, his expression vacant. "How'd you find me?"

"Figured you were lost in the past again. That's what happened at the gate, isn't it?"

"Mm-hmm." He dusted the snow off from the top of the headstone, his touch lingering a little. "I haven't been in this city in eighty years. I try not to live in my own head—move forward and all that—but…" he shrugged. "I came back to Vale and found Ozpin dead, Pyrrha dead, Beacon gone. I don't need to tell you how that kind of shock can age you. I feel old, Jaune."

"You _are_ old."

"I know that. I just thought… well, that I had longer." He rolled his shoulders, and Jaune almost heard the joints cracking from stiffness. "I'm sure you've felt it. This is more than just a job for Vale, and Beacon was more than just a terrorist attack. The woman from that broadcast was right. There's a war brewing. I won't see the other side of it."

"What's _really_ going on in Atlas?" There was clearly a reason Vengarl had avoided Mantle—and Atlas, probably—since the war, so there must have been a better reason for him to take the council's job. It wasn't for political reasons, and it wasn't for money.

Vengarl smiled and tapped the gravestone. "How long do we have?"

Jaune checked his scroll. "Fifteen minutes."

"I'll tell you all on the ship. Ponder this, if you would: what is your favourite fairy tale?"

/-/

Artorias had meant to barge dramatically into Professor June's office, but the elevator—and its unfortunate automatic door—prevented him from kicking down or otherwise demolishing the entrance as he arrived.

"Good. You're here. Hangover cure?" June looked up from her papers and gestured to a mug of coffee she'd set out across from her.

"The Fang," Artorias said. "Adam Taurus. All that. That's where I need to be right now." Gough's words late last night had bugged him all morning, but had now finally clicked. Of those responsible for the fall of Beacon—Cinder, Roman, and Adam—one was already being pursued and one had presumably dropped off the face of Remnant. But Adam? He was basically kicking himself in frustration. How had it taken him so long to realise?

"So you're _not_ hungover?"

"Professor!" Artorias paced across the room. "I don't know how it took me so long. Who knows how many contacts Cinder has in the White Fang? It could be many, _many_ more than Adam. But we _know_ about Adam, and someone needs to— _I_ need to—"

"Is this about Gough?"

He paused. "How did you know?"

"Please. All that training? I'd be remiss _not_ to keep a close eye on him. Adam Taurus is too dangerous for him, and he's probably too dangerous for you too. I was hoping you wouldn't get it in your head you should try to find him." She shrugged. "Clearly it's a bit late now."

"Won't know until I try," Artorias challenged. "I can't stay here. I have to help Gough."

"Sounds to me like you _should_ stay here, then."

"I can't do anything here. I… I don't know _what_ to do. But Adam… if I can take him down, maybe."

June's gaze softened, and she gestured for him to sit across from her. He finally obliged, and she pushed the coffee towards him. He didn't drink. "It's not your fault, Artorias. You needed to grieve, and he can't make you feel guilty about it."

Artorias stared down into the mug. "I'm tired, Professor."

"Of what?"

"Of being me. Of…" he trailed off, looking for the right word, then laughed a little to himself. "I don't like myself."

June cocked her head to the side, smirking. "That sounds _completely_ off-base. Wolf Knight, wasn't it? Quaint, but… idealistic. Inspiring, almost. It reminds me of the old days."

Artorias scoffed. "It's just a joke. I'm not that."

"I watched your tournament fights, Artorias, and I've known you three years. You _live_ to be a huntsman."

"It's easy to smile when everything's fine."

"And it's easy to frown otherwise. I get it. It's hard to find joy in times like these. But the bad times won't last. I promise you."

But it was more than that. He hated his _need_ to be independent, to be alone, to bury his sins deep down and ignore them, sneaking out at night to tackle missions without a team he should, by all rights, have trusted to have his back. Even after Vordt… he wondered what might've happened had Ciaran not woken up and followed him.

He wondered if he'd been a burden on Winter.

He fidgeted with his ring. "What's it like to be someone else?" he asked. "What is it like to be June instead of Gwynevere?"

June sighed and rested her chin on her hand as she pondered the question. "It's not much different," she said at last. "I can't escape who I am—can't forget all the things Gwynevere did. And if I could, I wouldn't be able to appreciate it, would I?"

"I guess not." Artorias laughed hollowly. "The Fang must have been recruiting heavily from Vale for a while, but they very well might have up and left the area. You wouldn't happen to know—"

"Menagerie," she said. "The bulk of their new blood comes from Menagerie. Not all of them are radicalised, of course, and I don't know if you could find Adam there, but…" she shrugged. "If you're looking to infiltrate the White Fang, it's your best bet." She leaned forwards and rummaged through her papers for her scroll. "I can organise passage, but I can't recommend you go alone. With the CCT network down, it could take months to get a visa for a human so Ciaran—or, heaven's forbid, Gough—aren't really options."

And Artorias supposed he ought to agree with her. He flexed the fingers of his left hand, remembering the scar that ran up the arm. Maybe it was time to change—or at least try. He nodded, then stood. "I've got someone in mind."

"Don't tell them too much."

"Right."

"There'll be a ship leaving from the coast at… around twilight. I'll arrange a flight to get you there. Be at the bullhead docks at one-thirty."

He nodded and made for the elevator. "Artorias?" she called, and he paused. "Good luck."

A deep breath steadied himself, and, a moment later, he cracked a smile. "Won't need it."

"Atta boy."

The elevator closed on her office, and Artorias pulled out his scroll.

" _Arty?"_ There was a crackle from the scroll, either from static or as it was shifted. _"How're you doing?"_

"Hey, I called _you_ ," Artorias said. This time, the smile was genuine, if a little less pronounced. "How're you holding up?"

" _Certainly been worse."_ She was breathing heavily. Artorias suspected she'd been training. He gave her a moment to catch her breath. _"I'm more fortunate than most, at least. Nobody dear to me was lost at Beacon."_

"Gough would be so hurt," Artorias quipped.

She laughed lightly. _"That would be a shame; he's hurt enough without my help. But he's alive, at least. I'm sorry about Gil. We were never that close, but—"_

"It's fine, Ana." He ran his hand through his air as the elevator let him out on the ground floor and nodded to Professor Brim as the older man stepped past him. "This isn't a social call. You around? I'd prefer to talk in person."

" _Sparring room three. Five minutes."_

"Very forward of you."

" _Come now, Artorias, you almost sound disappointed."_

"I'll see you there."

/-/

After changing into his new armour, Artorias made his way to the training rooms. The door opened with a _click_ , and Artorias saw Quelana sitting cross-legged in its centre, a single grain of powdered red dust sparkling on one palm and white dust on the other. Her hood was up, and her eyes were clenched shut with concentration.

Artorias shrugged and made his way to the bleachers. He didn't know much about dust, but he knew Quelana well enough not to interrupt.

A few minutes passed. At regular intervals, fire spat outwards from the tips of her fingers, little candlelights that she made hover over her head.

More lights. They began to spin above her like a halo, and Artorias shifted uncomfortably, reminded a little of his strange dream. He tugged off the new metal gauntlet June had given him and removed his ring, inspecting it closely. It looked the same as ever. Dull. Chipped. The effigy of the wolf had a crack running through its head. The ring wasn't exactly cool to the touch, but he wasn't silly enough to attribute that to a dream. It was just body heat.

He supposed it must have been his imagination. He'd certainly seen enough to inspire odd dreams these past few weeks.

As he replaced the ring and the gauntlet, he saw shadows and reflections dancing across the metal, and glanced up to see that Quelana had sent the fire to hover over his head, some thirty-odd flames each no larger than the tip of his finger. She'd pulled back her hood now, and was watching him, bemused.

"Nice."

Quelana laughed softly and sat down next to him, then pulled one of the lights away with a finger and tucked it behind her ear like a flower. One by one, the other flames winked out.

"Isn't that a bit too hot?"

She shook her head, smiling. "You've always played a good fool, Artorias."

"I try very hard."

"I know." She stood again and rolled her shoulders. "Spar first? Or do you have something more important to do?"

"I didn't actually come here expecting to spar."

"But you put on that new armour," she pointed out. "It's nice. Where'd you get it?"

"June gave it to me. My old armour was ruined at Beacon."

"And don't you want me to char it a bit?"

Artorias laughed, then stood and reached for his sword. "As if you could."

He went to plug his scroll in, and did the same with Quelana's when she tossed it to him. The sparring room whirred to life. The display lit up with their aura meters, and a shimmering cyan barrier separated them from the bleachers.

"Any rules?" he asked.

"No dust," she said.

He raised an eyebrow. "Quite a handicap for you."

"Price went up after Beacon. I'd rather not waste it. And I'd rather not see _you_ waste it, because every time you use it is a waste."

"Ah, so _that's_ how you're gonna roast me. I was wondering."

She smirked at him and raised her fists.

Artorias rolled his shoulder, testing his mobility in the armour, then flourished his blade. "Begin?"

She nodded, but did not approach.

Normally, Artorias would be at a disadvantage at any sort of range against Quelana, but without dust, he had the range advantage with his longer weapon. They circled each other slowly. He was suspicious that she wasn't rushing him—without dust, she had only her fists (which, oddly, she hadn't raised), and her best bet was to get too close for his sword to be effective.

They both knew who would _win_ , of course. There'd be a contest if she'd use her dust, but this wasn't their first time sparring, and they both knew he was a better melee combatant—which made it all the more curious that she'd go without dust…

Artorias stepped closer.

Quelana edged backwards.

He stepped closer again.

She backstepped.

Narrowing his eyes, Artorias charged.

A great arcing movement with Quelana's arm sent fire crackling towards his eyes like a whip. Artorias swatted at it with his left hand and danced backwards and away.

"I thought you said no dust!"

"I used this long before we started. This is an exercise in control," she said calmly. The flames retreated and diminished until they were so small they fit on her fingertip.

 _Ah._ The little flame she'd tucked away behind her ear. "That still counts!"

Quelana grinned. "Does not." She raised her hand, and the flames lanced towards him in a thin beam. He ducked to the side, hissing as he was too slow, and the fire glanced off his pauldron. The armour was heavier than he was used to—nothing he couldn't manage, but he'd need practice to adjust to the new weight. The weight of the blow sent him spinning, but he turned the centrifugal force to his advantage, tearing his dagger from his belt and letting it loose towards Quelana as he came around to face her.

She caught it in her left hand. The fire wavered, but did not wink out. Now she did rush at him, switching the dagger from left to right hand and ducking under the swing he made to meet her. An upwards stab caught him in a joint in his armour, sending him stumbling back, and he recovered just in time to bat aside a fiery lance as it came at him from the side.

Quelana stabbed the dagger at his side, but it bounced off the metal plates uselessly. Artorias' elbow came down, slamming into her outstretched arm, and she relinquished her grip on his dagger. Before he could shove her away, she was dancing backwards, flames gathering behind her to blast at him.

His gauntlet shifted, and he raised his arm. The flames licked at the edges of his shield.

They weren't as hot as he expected. He supposed that shouldn't have surprised him—she'd summoned all this fire from little more than a grain of dust several minutes ago. Sure, with the weight of her aura behind it she could hit as hard as a damn sledgehammer, but it wasn't _hot_ anymore. At most, it'd cause some blisters.

She'd not been nearly this good with dust six months ago. He shuddered to think what she could do if she were using uncut crystals.

He stepped forwards, bracing his shoulder against the top of the shield and pushing against the fire, then, with a twist, angled the flames away, opened his guard, and kicked his dagger back up towards Quelana's face. She wasn't ready this time, and the blade dragged itself along her arm as she tried to defend herself. Her aura sparked, and the fire went out. His dagger spun out of the arena.

Artorias' shield collapsed, and he gripped his sword two-handed. She twisted out of the way of his first stab, but he threw himself bodily after her, ramming her with his right shoulder and sending her reeling. He planted his right foot to correct his balance, then swung, scoring a heavy blow on her midriff. Aura sparked, and Quelana allowed the blow to send her away, only to land on her feet and rush back into range, leaping over his next strike and ramming her elbow into his face. A quick tilt of his head did a little to alleviate the damage, but did nothing to stop her from crashing into him.

He fell to the ground, Quelana on top of him, and relinquished his grip on his sword. Her fist came down and his hands shot up to tap her wrist, pushing it aside. Instead of breaking his nose, she pounded the floor next to him, and it was all the time he needed to shove her away.

He didn't bother standing. "This could take a while," he said instead, chuckling.

She didn't stand either. "Call it a draw?"

"Well, I still _kinda_ have the advantage, as long as—" He was cut off by a clatter as she grabbed his sword and sent it skittering along the floor to the arena's edge. "Yeah. Draw. Nice fire trick."

"Good kick," she acknowledged. Taking a deep breath, she sat up and wiped her forehead with the back of her arm, then stood and headed to the bleachers, retrieving her scroll on the way. "So. What's going on?"

Artorias eased his gauntlet off and let them clatter to the floor next to him, flexing his fingers. Though not enough to cause serious damage, the metal was still hot, and his hand was quite red. "I'm leaving for Menagerie tonight."

"Do you want me to come with you or do you want me to talk you out of it?"

"The former."

"For the sake of arguing the latter, what's in Menagerie?"

"At best, Adam Taurus. At worst, nothing. But, most likely, a way to _find_ Adam Taurus—namely by infiltrating the White Fang. You in?"

Quelana glanced over to him, frowning. "You're not making this sound like a good idea." She noticed him nursing his hand and tossed a dark blue crystal towards him. It was cool to the touch.

"He killed Smough, Ana."

She looked at him incredulously.

"I don't know! Gough got in my head. And it's—"

"Gough needs to stop obsessing about this. I'll bet anything he's at the firing range right now. He can't go on like this."

"But I can," Artorias said quietly. "I have to."

"No, you don't. You don't owe Smough anything. You don't owe Gough anything."

"I couldn't protect him. I was there. I was _right there._ "

"You don't owe him this."

"It's more than that, Ana. It's… you heard the broadcast, didn't you? The black queen on red? It's that too."

"Oh, it'th _that too?_ " Her lisp, usually unnoticeable, became more pronounced for a split second. She closed her eyes for a moment and calmed herself down. "You can't save everyone and you can't fix everything. That's how the world works, Artorias."

"I'm not _trying_ to—"

"Yes, you are!"

Artorias sighed. "I've made up my mind. Are you coming with me or not?"

She snorted. "You're going to end up dead."

"In a ditch, no less. I know. They're all still out there, Ana. This isn't just for Gough, or for me. These people destroyed Beacon. They could do the same to Shade."

"Then we'll fight them as they come."

"That's what we did at Beacon," he said. "And look what happened."

She fell quiet. She picked at the cork on a vial of powdered burn dust. "When are you leaving?"

"I'll be on a bullhead around one-thirty. The boat leaves at twilight."

She nodded. "I'll think about it."

/-/

Oddly enough, Gough wasn't at the firing range. Artorias checked elsewhere: the kitchens next, seeing as he'd talked about baking before, but Gough wasn't there either. Then it was the forge, then the bar, then the dorm (and he was kicking himself for not thinking of that sooner), but all he found was Ciaran, sitting on the side of her bed with a glass of water clutched in her hands.

"Don't open the door so loudly," she groaned. "How much did I drink last night?"

"No idea. You were already pretty drunk by the time you found me."

"I didn't do anything too embarrassing, did I?"

"Hmm? Nah. Nothing worse than what I've done."

She groaned again, and Artorias laughed.

"Where's Gough?" he asked.

"Havel came by… think he was back from a mission. They're at Smough's grave. Should be back around noon." She gulped down some water, then fell sideways into bed. "Don't be loud," she said.

"Need me to get you something? Painkillers, maybe?"

"Already taken some." She pulled up the covers. "Not working yet. No more noise…"

Artorias rolled his eyes and moved over to the desk by the wall, spinning the chair around to sit. It was close enough to noon that it wasn't worth chasing Gough down just yet.

He was proven right not five minutes later when the door opened and Gough entered. Havel lingered in the corridor behind. "Thank you, Havel," Gough said, memory guiding him to the chair by the desk. Artorias scurried out of it to let the larger man sit.

"No trouble," Havel said, curt as ever.

Gough laid his hands on the back of the chair to determine its exact position before sitting. "Was that Ciaran?" he asked, tilting his head to listen for movement.

She groaned in response.

"Artorias, then?"

"Mm-hmm. Could you give us some privacy, Havel?"

Havel nodded shortly. "I'm heading out on another job tomorrow morning, but I'll be around if you need me Gough."

"Of course."

Havel departed. Artorias waited for the sound of his footsteps to disappear around the corner before he closed the door.

Ciaran sat up, looking like quite the cadaver. "Is this something serious?" she asked, deadpan.

"Yup."

She squinted at him, then rubbed her eyes. "One minute, then I'm going back to sleep."

"Fair enough." Artorias took a deep breath, then looked Gough square in the… well, where his eyes used to be, and spoke. "I'm leaving. Today. For Menagerie. I'm going to track down Adam Taurus."

Gough sighed, then stood. "I'm coming with—"

"Gough, you can't. Back me up here, C. He can't, right?"

"Mmph. That."

"Menagerie aside, you can't fight, Gough."

"I can't sit idle, and _you_ can't go off on your own!"

"Mm-hmm," Ciaran grunted.

"I won't be. Maybe. Quelana might be coming with me. Look, I'm not here to ask permission. I… there's a lot at stake. This is bigger than you, and it's bigger than Smough, and he was a _big guy_ , so…"

Gough was silent. Artorias fairly sure Ciaran had already fallen asleep again. "I'll be alright, Gough."

"But what if you're not?"

"I will be," Artorias said. "I promise you, I will be." He stood and laid a hand on Gough's shoulder. "I know what I'm doing."

"You're leaving us behind, like you always do."

"I don't have much of a choice this time."

"You could stay."

"And do what?"

Gough's silence was telling. Artorias headed for the door. "Tell Ciaran I said goodbye, would you?"

He nodded.

/-/

"You were almost late."

Artorias stepped up to the Bullhead. Quelana was already waiting for him by the boarding ramp, a little smile at the edge of her mouth. Quelaan and Quelaag were standing with her.

"We're not taking the twins too, are we?"

"Oh, no, not at all. They wanted to see me off."

Artorias turned to them. "And not me?"

Quelaan smiled and pulled him into a hug. Quelaag was harder to persuade.

"You didn't drop by even once in the past two days," she said, "and last time you were back you were just here for information. That's just poor manners."

"Missed you too." He pulled away from Quelaan and headed up the ramp. "I'll be on board. We're leaving in two."

Not long afterwards, he heard steps coming up the ramp. When he turned to look, he saw Ciaran. Her hair was a mess, her face was pale, and there were bags under her eyes still, but she was walking steadily enough.

"You really don't handle hangovers well, do you?"

She shook her head and sat down next to him. "You know that wasn't a proper goodbye, right?"

"Getting drunk together? Seems alright to me."

She punched him lightly on the arm. "Yeah. It would."

He sighed and tapped out a rhythm on the seat beneath him.

"Gough understands. You know that, right?"

"I know."

"He's still having trouble adjusting."

"Duh. Can't blame him, though."

"Yeah. Neither can I." She leaned back against the headrest and closed her eyes. "If I could get a convincing disguise I think I'd go with you."

Artorias smiled. "You'd look good with a set of gills."

"Or a tail, right? Could be fun." She laughed a little, but stopped when she it made her feel queasy. They heard Quelana starting to head up the ramp, and Ciaran sighed, then stood. "Promise me you won't die."

"I won't."

She looked back at him, puzzled. "…I'm actually not so sure your word means anything to me."

Artorias laughed heartily. "Goodbye, Ciaran."

"Good luck, Artorias."

She and Quelana exchanged a brief, quiet word as they passed each other, then Ciaran was gone. The boarding ramp raised, the door closed, and, with a shudder, the Bullhead lifted off.

"What made you decide to come?" Artorias asked.

"None of your business."

/-/

Winter adjusted the beret that hid the roots of her hair—just in case the brown dye hadn't been applied as thoroughly as necessary—and approached the hall. It had been closed for some two decades, almost as long as she'd been alive, and all the windows were boarded up. Still, there was a man in an old dirty jacket sitting by the side door. If not for the intel she'd received, she'd have thought him homeless. That and she'd seen the people passing him by, flashing a hand towards him before entering the old hall.

She approached, slipping a glove onto her left hand. The guard had a hood to ward off the cold, and from beneath it his eyes glinted with suspicion.

"You new?" he growled.

She nodded, and adjusted the cuffs of her jacket. It would make her look nervous. The first rule of infiltration was to act as though you belonged, but she hadn't expected the guard to be able to recognise people by face. Rightly, a new person _wouldn't_ feel like they belonged, and she had to sell the ruse. She tilted the glove towards him, and he leaned in a little, sniffing the cold air.

"Go on in," he said.

It was dark inside. There were floodlights set up, but didn't do much to light up the room, instead highlighting the dust floating in the air. Some two dozen—perhaps two-and-a-half—people had already arrived. The stage, little more than a raised platform towards the back of the room—was framed on both sides by stacks of crates covered in tarps and linens.

Winter moved as far from the stage as she could, close to the large, boarded-up doors by the front of the hall. Ironwood had sent one of the recruits to the Specialist program to back her up, but they'd thought it better not to go in at the same time. Five minutes, it ought to be.

"Have I seen you somewhere before?"

She looked at the man who'd addressed her. He was around her age and had a few inches of height on her, with small, beady eyes.

"I doubt it," she said. "I'm… new."

He frowned and furrowed his brow further, then shrugged. "Makes sense. I don't think I could forget a face so pretty."

Winter refrained from stabbing him. She crossed her arms and rolled her eyes. "I'm not interested."

He laughed. "Putting our lives on the line and you can't even spare a moment to have some fun. Your loss."

"Lives on the line?"

"Hmm? Oh yeah. Newby. You'll see." He gave her a wink. "Welcome to the team."

He left to chat up a faunus woman with deer ears who stood close to the side door. As soon as he was gone, Winter let her scowl show for a moment before smothering it.

He'd refrained from asking a name though, which, from her understanding, was an oddity. Usually his type would latch onto a name to feign interest. She guessed that meant that sharing names was forbidden. It'd make it harder to track down any stragglers later.

"Found anything yet?" Winter's… shadow? Backup? Mentee? She wasn't sure what he was going to be, or what he was supposed to be. The Specialist program certainly had mentor-mentee programs in the field, but not for fresh-faced recruits like this one. Still, he at least had a modicum of huntsman training, which was more than some recruits could say.

It hadn't done much for his covert skills.

"Don't stand together. Don't associate with me," she hissed. If one of them got caught, they couldn't afford for the other to be under suspicion.

Solaire, his hair dyed black and wearing green-coloured contacts, bobbed his head. "Right. I'll… mingle?" he asked quietly.

She could see the vague familiarity between them already attracting some attention. She played it off like she'd played off the beady-eyed man from before—by crossing her arms and rolling her eyes. "I'm not here for that," she said, a little louder now.

It took Solaire a little longer than she'd have liked to get the hint, but she supposed it sold the ruse better than an immediate acquiescence.

Not long afterwards, a woman walked up onto the stage. Unlike everyone else, she wore a black volto mask, like something from a masquerade ball, and wore a red cloak. Winter edged a little closer to the stage—as did everyone else—but she wasn't close enough to see very well. The woman was a little over five-and-a-half feet tall and strands of loose dark hair peaked out from her mask—but even that could have been dyed. Winter could make out no distinguishing features.

"Partake in peace," the woman said. Her voice was not altered by anything technological, that was for sure, but she was speaking at a pitch that was clearly lower than she was comfortable with. She had a thick Vacuan accent—so thick, Winter suspected, that she was putting that on too. A murmur went around the room to respond in kind. "I am glad to see so many familiar faces here. I am gladder still that we have some new faces among us." Her eyes settled on Solaire, who smiled nervously and nodded at the attention. "It is the duty of the church to prepare this world for the Deep, and, together, we have shown Atlas that Sulyvahn's failure will not be tolerated!"

A few cheers. Most simply clapped. The beady-eyed man from before sidled up to Winter. "I was part of that," he muttered, grinning. She could tell he hoped it would impress her. She made a point of ignoring him. He could be locked up later. She had bigger fish to fry.

"Which is not to say there haven't been sacrifices. I too mourn those who gave their lives." Winter suppressed a snort. They'd taken their _own_ lives out of sheer zealotry. She had no sympathy for them. "I can only hope that Saint Aldrich has welcomed them on the other side. But, for all that, we cannot rest until the corruption is uprooted and we—the faithful—can openly serve to deliver Remnant to the Deep!"

Winter wondered when she'd get to the point. She began to shuffle through the crowd, intending to get closer to the covered crates by the stage, but the beady-eyed man grabbed her arm. "Where're you going?" he whispered. "Cold feet?"

She grabbed his wrist and forcefully removed his hand, glaring a little. He winced when her nails broke the skin. "Don't touch me," she hissed.

He retracted his hand warily, adjusted his jacket, then faced the stage—but she could see him watching her from the corners of his eyes. _Dammit._

She returned her attention to the stage.

"Irithyll, as ever, remains the seat of our faith—but also of the corruption of the church. We—the _truly_ faithful—must _stamp it out!_ "

The woman nodded to the people standing by the crates, and they uncovered them. They were full of swords, and dust, and handguns.

It was frightening how quickly they'd come this far, Winter reflected. At first it had been assaults on the street. Members of the church being beaten within an inch of their life on their ways home after mass, merely weeks ago. Then they'd become more organised, targeting key buildings with fire and dust. Sulyvahn's home first. One of the police stations next. Then, most recently, the local CCT relay.

But now an army?

The weapons were being distributed. The woman continued to speak. "Tonight, we deliver the corrupt to the Deep. Tonight, the cathedral burns."

The Cathedral of Irithyll was the oldest house of religious worship still in service in all of Remnant. Winter was hardly religious, but she recognised its cultural importance and its architectural beauty.

She also recognised the illegality of burning it to the ground.

A cheer went up. The beady-eyed man turned back to her to beckon her forwards.

"You look worried," he said. "We're doing the right thing."

"Partake in peace," Winter drawled sarcastically.

He peered at her. "Are you sure we don't know each other?"

She shrugged and pushed past him, heading left, in the general direction of the crates, but more importantly, towards Solaire. Once she and Solaire were outside they could contact Ironwood—or the local police or garrison—for backup. There were some three-to-four dozen people at this point—they couldn't take them all on by themselves. For now, they'd just have to blend in.

"You're that Schnee bitch!"

… _excuse me?_

Everyone heard it. Everyone turned to look at the beady-eyed man who'd yelled it, then followed his raised finger to her.

"Am I?" she asked, eyebrow raised. If she could just fib her way out of this—

"Winter, down!"

 _Solaire!_ She did as instructed, trusting that whatever he was doing it would help salvage them from the dumpster fire he'd tipped them into. Golden light flashed throughout the room, blindingly bright. Even through closed eyelids, it burned Winter's retinas a little.

She shoved people aside as she rushed the stage, drawing her dagger from her sleeve. Her sabre was too distinctive and too large to conceal—the dagger was all she had. The masked woman reached into her cloak and pulled out a revolver, dust glinting from channels in its grip. A glyph propelled Winter forwards, tackling the masked woman to the ground before she could take aim, and Winter slashed for her wrist, attempting to cut a tendon or _something_ to force her to drop the weapon.

The dagger skittered off a reddish-purple aura.

A powerful kick sent Winter backwards, crashing into the hall's back wall. She rolled to her feet, accepting the sword Solaire tossed her way as he formed up alongside her. He looked tired all of a sudden, and a more detailed inspection revealed that his aura was visibly fluctuating across his skin. He must have expended a lot with his blinding trick—he clearly lacked control. Regardless, his watch had expanded to a shield, and his dust-embroidered talisman blazed with golden light.

"Plan?" he panted.

Winter grimaced. The flash he'd created hadn't blinded them long. Already, the zealots were approaching, weapons raised and ready.

"We have some traitors, it seems. Or spies? Winter Schnee of the Atlesian Specialists, and…" the masked woman looked Solaire up and down. She didn't find a name for the face, but her eyes widened behind her mask, as if in recognition.

She'd dropped the change in pitch, though she'd retained the put-on accent. She sounded familiar, though Winter couldn't place it. "You all have one chance to surrender," Winter called.

"You're at a disadvantage, Miss Schnee. I suggest you reconsider."

It hard to judge for sure the extent of the disadvantage. A handful of the zealots looked like they had considerable combat experience by their stances. The leader certainly had aura, sharp reflexes, and a weapon that must have been hard to come by—unless she'd gotten it from an academy's forge. Winter ran it through her head. The zealots? Yes, she could take them by herself. The zealots _and_ the masked woman? Not a risk worth taking, especially not with Solaire already exhausted.

A flick of the wrist brought a large Ursa from the floor next to her. The zealots recoiled in surprise, and the Ursa used that precious second to smash a hole in the back wall. Solaire took a step forwards, catching a bullet from the masked woman's revolver with his shield before it could down the Ursa.

"Go!" Winter told him. The Ursa was expendable. Solaire was considerably less so. He glanced at her, then obeyed, diving through the dust and debris. The zealots finally opened fire, and the Ursa ate up the shots to protect her as she followed.

"Up!" Even as she coughed the dust away, she conjured a glyph for Solaire to leap from, propelling him to the roof of the adjacent building. "Get to the garrison and bring as many as you can to the cathedral. I'll meet you there!"

He nodded, then disappeared over the lip of the roof.

Winter fled. Glyph after glyph sped her away, the mob chasing. It was late enough at night that the streets were empty, but she saw lights go on in houses as she passed. She mused to herself that there'd be a few noise complaints.

With her glyphs' help, it didn't take her too long to leave the zealots behind. There was a large courtyard out the front of the cathedral that it would be impossible for them not to pass through to reach it, and it was there that she readied herself for their arrival. She inspected the sword Solaire had thrown her—decent craftsmanship, but clearly mass-produced. It felt little different from Artorias' sword in balance, though it was overall lighter. It would do fine. It'd do even better if they could track down the manufacturer and find out who'd bought it.

She waited in the courtyard. Only four zealots came, and they came silently as if they could sneak past her; she defeated them swiftly and tried to question them, but only then found that their tongues had been freshly removed. She'd get no intel from them.

And, not thirty seconds later, when Solaire arrived with a dozen soldiers and smoke began to rise elsewhere in Irithyll, she realised that they'd been duped.

/-/

 _To Aslatiel,_

 _It feels weird to write you, but the king tells me it'll help, so I guess I'm doing it again. Hello, brother._

 _Ever since being recalled I've been having strange dreams. I dream of a cold, dark, and gentle place. I dream of a faunus woman with a white tail. I dream of Priscilla. He says I should write about her the most. It's important. He won't say why. I don't think it's good._

 _I want to protect her from him. I don't know why, and I don't even know how. I don't even know who she is._

 _I also dream of the desert, but the king doesn't care about that at all. It's unimportant, he says. The painting. Always the painting. I don't know what he's talking about. I haven't dreamt of any paintings. But the desert? I see a pile of bodies taller than the dunes. I see your face among them. I see a man who I think is our father. I don't remember him well enough to be sure. I see a figure in a red hood._

 _I don't know what it means. I don't know where it came from. I don't like that dream. It wakes me up in a cold sweat. At least I haven't woken up screaming. Gods, that'd be embarrassing._

 _You always knew better than I. I wish you could help me. I miss you, brother._

* * *

 **So, for those just joining us (or those who've forgotten what's happening in all the myriad arcs because updates are getting further and further apart rip), Team RWBY are on the same path as canon Team RNJR, so I'll be picking up that arc around the time Tyrian shows up. Oscar's waiting out the winter while he chats with Ozpin and Ozpin's weird Lucatiel hallucination, so I'll be picking up his arc around about the same time. I've delayed Vengarl + JNR from any form of plot for probably too long, so they're finally on the road to Atlas to join up with Ironwood/Winter/Solaire/Ornstein's arc, which is where the focus is likely to be next chapter. Artorias and Quelana (bet nobody expected her to be back with a major role after all this time) are headed to Menagerie to try and track down Adam, and kicking that off was the central focus of this chapter.**

 **I'm glad I can justify giving Quelana a more central role. She's one of my favourite characters from DS1, but she's been absent from this story since Chapter 7. Ciaran and Gough are unfortunately taking a backseat. I'd _like_ to do more with them (particularly Gough) around this time period but I don't feel the _need_ to do more with them. Gough's goals and motivations are comfortably established, but the whole blindness thing prevents him from taking action.**

 **Quelana and Solaire aren't the only major changes being made to the roster. Next chapter (hopefully) I'll be bringing in Hawkwood as another supporting character for the Atlas arc. Conniptions inbound.  
**

 **Also, a question to people who watch behind-the-scenes stuff: _where in Remnant is Sienna Khan's big White Fang castle/fortress thing from Volume 5?_ If I can't get a word-of-god on this I know what I'll do with it, but if there's a word-of-god it'd be good to use that instead to be consistent.**


	46. Chapter 45: Ornstein

**Been a while. Soz.**

* * *

"Beginning experiment one-point-oh in three… two… one…"

Gilderoy gasped, and oh did it feel good to gasp. This was his chance to escape. His legs cycled beneath him, but it did not feel like he was running—instead, it was almost as though he were gliding over the sand and the ash and the rubble. Not even Polendina knew what he was looking for, but it was unmistakeably the _thing_ he sought: the thing in the sky ahead of him, the—

"Experiment complete."

Doctor Polendina's face was framed by the halo of the lamp hanging over the table.

"What did you see, Mr Ornstein?"

/-/

" _For those of you just joining us, the home of Pontiff Royce was burned to the ground in the early hours of the morning. His body was retrieved by the fire department, and he was identified and declared dead at five-eighteen A.M. Joining us live from Alsius Square is Irithyll seat candidate Doctor Arthur Watts."_

" _I am, of course, deeply saddened by this news. Though we didn't see eye to eye on many issues, Pontiff Royce deeply cares—cared—for his constituents, and that is always a quality to be admired."_

" _Do you think the recent attacks in Irithyll are related, Doctor?"_

" _I certainly wouldn't rule it out. Arson appears to be their modus operandi. It's more important now than ever for Irithyll to find strong leadership."_

" _There have been rumours already that this came off the back of a failed specialist operation. Do you think the military should act with a heavier hand in these troubled times?"_

" _I think it's important not to cause a panic. These people are determined and dangerous—but clearly troubled. Meeting force with brute force would only cause more pain. I advise the citizens of Irithyll to be cautious, but not fearful. I'll be working with General Ironwood personally over the coming weeks, and I can assure you that they are doing everything they can to resolve the conflict without risking the lives of everyday civilians."_

General Ironwood refrained from shooting the screen and instead muted it, closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose. Watts hadn't lied, but he'd severely misconstrued the truth for political gain. Ironwood would be wrestling with reporters for weeks over that one.

What was more, Watts was trying to turn public opinion to Ironwood's side, but only as long as he followed a covert course of action. That was looking less and less optimal by the minute.

"What happened?" he growled.

To her credit, Winter maintained her composure, standing across the other side of his desk. Solaire flinched.

"We were recognised," Winter said. "Intel gained during the operation confirmed an attack on the cathedral, so we moved to defend it. They changed targets."

" _You_ were recognised," Ironwood said. Solaire's face wasn't nearly as widely known.

"No, sir. Their leader recognised Solaire as well."

Ironwood looked to Solaire. "Is this true?"

The young man shifted uncomfortably. "I don't know. She didn't seem to during her speech, but… maybe. There was something. Maybe."

Ironwood sighed in frustration. "Look into it. Do you have any names?"

"…no, sir."

"Any faces?"

"Some. Only the leader wore a mask. I'll contact a sketch artist."

"…do you have _anything else?"_

"Weapons, sir." She placed her scroll on the desk. A hologram emerged, of a revolver with a channel for dust set into its grip. "This is the weapon their leader used. I looked into it; it was commissioned the day before the Fall of Beacon from the Atlas Academy forge by somebody claiming to be Tristan Fowler." She then nodded to Solaire; he drew a sword and laid it gently on the desk. "They've also mass-produced these swords. I'm unsure where."

 _Tristan Fowler._ The name was familiar. He looked to Winter, assuming she'd done her research. She was reliable like that. "Tell me about Mr. Fowler."

"He was a huntsman from northern Sanus, graduated from Beacon thirty years ago with Team Tallow." She gritted her teeth, then sighed. "He died two years later at Fort Castle."

Ironwood raised an eyebrow. "Then I assume you have suspects? Family, perhaps? His teammates?"

"All dead. The latest, Lance Sky, died defending Vale during the Fall of Beacon. His only living family is Lily Fowler of Team Fennel."

Ironwood started. "Miss Farron's team?"

"Yes sir. I understand it's a delicate situation. How do you want me to proceed?"

"If you can contact Miss Fowler, do so, but do _not_ approach Miss Farron. I'm barring you from undercover missions; you're too recognisable. Otherwise, continue as before. I'll make a handful more recruits from the specialist program available to you should you require manpower."

"Recruits?" Solaire shifted nervously.

"We're spread thin," Ironwood explained. Most of the specialists proper were in Mistral. He'd kept a dozen in Atlas to handle affairs such as this, but the dust mines out east had become a hotbed of Fang activity after Beacon. "I'll have names sent to you by noon. Solaire, you're dismissed."

"Yes sir."

The young man silently departed. When the door closed behind him, General Ironwood addressed Winter. "How did he do?"

"Acceptably."

"Elaborate."

"He acted brashly in a situation that I might have salvaged, I'll admit, but I believe he made the right choice. Better to claim the element of surprise than to let it slip away. But it did cost him much of his aura."

"What did he do?"

"He blinded the room, sir. I'm not familiar enough with his abilities to know if he could have chosen a more efficient action."

Ironwood nodded. "You may go." His gloved hand reached for the hilt of the sword on his desk. "And don't forget this."

/-/

"How could you let her do… that?!"

"Ozpin would have done nothing without her consent, Jaune. I trust that she made her choice."

This was not Nora's first outburst, or Jaune's for that matter. They'd been somewhat more muted on the bullhead, so as to avoid the pilot overhearing. But since arriving in the rooms made available for them at the Valean embassy a little after noon, they'd become less concerned about eavesdroppers.

Unsurprisingly, Ren had taken everything quietly, if not in stride, and continued to observe from the corner, his eyes half-lidded and deep in thought. But Nora and Jaune still continued their tirade.

"If we'd known, if we could have _helped…_ we could have saved her."

"A Maiden is a far greater foe than you could defeat, Jaune. Cinder would certainly have been beyond my abilities," Vengarl said. He saw Jaune take a breath to speak again, and cut him off. "Perhaps I should not have _started_ with this talk of Maidens and Seasons." He'd intended to tell them all, but they'd been unable to move past what they perceived as his betrayal of Pyrrha.

He couldn't blame them.

"Oh, so there's _more_? She trusted you, Vengarl. We all did. And you… you, and Ozpin, Glynda, even _Artorias_ was in on it _?_ " Jaune cursed and kicked angrily, his shoe hitting the leg of a table.

"And what would you have done?" Vengarl asked. "We tried, Jaune. We tried other ways… they kept Amber alive for so long, before I even arrived in Vale. There were no good choices."

"Bull—"

"If you had not acted," Ren said carefully, cutting Nora off, "if you had let the cards fall as they would, what would have happened?"

"I wasn't there: I do not know for sure what happened in the vault, or what passed between Pyrrha and Cinder atop the tower. But… assuming that Amber perished, I think it would have gone much the same. Ozpin gone. Beacon in ruins. Hundreds dead in Vale."

"But not Pyrrha."

Vengarl grimaced and was unable to meet Jaune's gaze. "Perhaps not. But it could have gone so much worse. There are secrets in Beacon, so many secrets that might have been—"

There was a knock at the door.

For a moment, silence filled the room. Vengarl was caught off guard. Ren moved first to answer it.

"Can we help you?"

"Message for Sir Vengarl. General Ironwood has been notified of your arrival and wishes to meet with you immediately."

"Thank you, Mr Duhl," Ren said. He glanced over his shoulder to check that Vengarl had heard; on the older man's nod, he turned his attention back to the messenger. "Will that be all? Thank you."

They waited for Bert's footsteps to recede down the hall. "Will you be going, then?" Jaune asked.

"Yes."

"Does Ironwood know?"

"Only so much. The Maidens, yes. The rest…"

"Will you tell him?"

Vengarl hesitated. Ozpin had surely had his reasons for not trusting the general. But circumstances had changed. Ironwood was a good man, though loyal to Atlas before Ozpin.

He considered the consequences of informing the general of Ozpin's immortality: it would be good to have a network of specialists on their side seeking the professor out, but the specialists were not entirely trustworthy. Vordt had proven that. Vengarl feared Ironwood would not be able to see this.

And the relic? If Ironwood knew he housed something so powerful and dangerous so close to home, he would leave the rest of the world to rot to protect it… or seek to claim the others by force, all the better to protect them. Both were short-sighted solutions. Ironwood's successors would likely not show his self-control in the latter scenario, and the former spelled doom for them all.

"No," Vengarl said at last. "It's too risky."

"Will you tell _us?_ " Nora asked.

"On my return, certainly." Vengarl stood and reached for his sword belt and his pack, strapping the old raven-embossed shield to his back. A Huntsman was never without a weapon. He glanced around the room at his students, his friends. Ren and Nora's eyes met his. Ren was calm. Trusting. Nora was still angry.

Jaune looked away.

"I am sorry," Vengarl said, and then departed.

/-/

Gilderoy came to once more. Doctor Polendina scrambled, startled, accidentally sending a notepad to the floor. He didn't even ask for the results of his little experiment.

"Doctor Polendina?" There was a rapping at the door. "I did hear that, you know. Come now, greet an old friend."

"Up, Mr Ornstein," the doctor hissed. "You're too important to be seen. Away, now. Go. And stay silent."

Gilderoy obliged, his body moving faster than his addled brain. If he even had one—he wasn't entirely sure if it had been saved or only its contents. He forgot things sometimes. He couldn't remember what he was supposed to look like, or if Smough had a beard or not. Sometimes he thought yes, and imagined that it was blue, which seemed bizarre, but he thought it was still handsome. Sometimes he thought no. Smough was beardless.

He ducked away from the main operating room into the little closet where the doctor kept all the files and blueprints and schematics and shut the door.

When Doctor Polendina was satisfied, he went to unlock the entrance. Gilderoy positioned himself so his eye could peer through the gap between it and the frame. Gears whirred almost imperceptibly, and the eye zoomed in to give him a blurry picture of the visitor.

It was a man, tall and wiry, with a wide, thick moustache. "Arthur!" Doctor Polendina said breathlessly. "I, ah, wasn't aware you were in town."

"I've been rather public about it for the past few weeks." _Arthur_ … Gilderoy tried to place the name but only a copper ring came to mind. "What with the political campaign… you _have_ heard about that, haven't you?"

"What? Oh! Silly me. Of course."

"You've been cooped up in your lab and haven't noticed at all, haven't you?"

"…yes."

There was a pregnant pause. It broke when Arthur began to laugh. "It _is_ good to see you again Geppetto, after all these years. What have you been working on?"

"Keen to steal my research again, are you?"

"Of course not, my friend. Merely curious." The wiry man stepped past the doctor and inspected the lab. "Seems rather… clean. You squirreled something away, didn't you? Must be quite exciting."

"Not at all, Arthur. I was… uh, building a new mechanical prosthetic for a patient. In the operating theatre."

"You mean to tell me you're not delegating that kind of work? We mastered that craft a decade ago, Geppetto. Surely there's something more exciting."

"It's a personal project. A friend injured in the Fall commissioned it. In fact… I'd appreciate your input. You always were better with Faunus parts."

"I'd be delighted to help, Doctor. Is it a tail? A wing? An ear? Ah, but I'm getting ahead of myself—all in due time, of course. I wish to ask a favour of you."

"You're flat out of those, I'm afraid." For the first time, Gilderoy heard Doctor Polendina laugh.

"Am I?"

Gilderoy's eyes picked up the dim light of a scroll. The pupil adjusted with a slight buzz.

"You can't threaten me with that, Watts. The world already knows. Ironwood knew beforehand, and we've had words since. My place here is secure."

"You think I want you discredited? I've never met a finer mind, truthfully. No. I'm in need of one myself—someone stupid enough to be obedient but smart enough to blend in. If not, I'll be sharing this little file with every tech tycoon in Atlas. Unless you want her to be mass-produced—a cheap _thing_ to be replicated over and over, to die over and over—"

"It's not her," the doctor said, his voice strained. "Arthur, please. Don't—"

"Oh no, it wouldn't be her, of _course_ not," he said soothingly. "She'd just look like her, soul aside. An artificial soul… it's truly remarkable. It shouldn't work. I suppose I saw the proof at the tournament, but… you truly are a genius." The light of the scroll went out. Gilderoy assumed he pocketed it. He heard footsteps pacing outside in the lab. "I'll take a little look around. Inspect this friend of yours new… tail? I assume you'll have an answer on my return."

"Arthur, wait!"

Gilderoy heard both their footsteps receding into the maze of halls behind the lab. Tentatively, he opened the door.

 _Away_. That was what the doctor had said.

He intended to obey.

His metal feet clacked on the floor louder than he liked, but he could do little to muffle the sound. He moved for the exit, slammed the handle downwards with reckless abandon, and fled for the elevator.

It had gone back up. He cursed inwardly, still unable to speak, and mashed the button with a metal finger: as a relic from the old war, it was the only way in and out. As a security measure, not even stairs had been built down to this level.

He could hear them coming back already. "That sounds like a pet project, Geppetto. Penny would be so betrayed."

"Ornstein! Help!"

He tried to step into the elevator as the doors slid open, but his legs turned him the other way.

"Stop!"

He could do nothing.

"Now now… Ornstein, was it?" Arthur Watts rounded the corner from the lab, a knife held at Doctor Polendina's throat. "Voice recognition? Or command word?"

"Voice," Doctor Polendina rasped out. "You won't get away with this, Watts."

"Oh, if only you weren't so paranoid. No security cameras? Honestly, Doctor. You're too predictable." He gestured with the knife as he spoke. His eyes narrowed on Gilderoy. "So. What's the idea here, Doctor? Experimental? Combatant?" Doctor Polendina struggled, and the knife bit into his throat a little. The cut was shallow. "This isn't Penny Mk 2, is it? You're already replacing her… how shameful, Doctor."

"He killed her," Polendina said, his voice strangled. "This is… gah! Punishment."

"Oh. _Oh._ Mr Ornstein. A pleasure to meet you." He grimaced as Polendina tried again to wriggle free. "He's perfect. We can disguise that a little, no? And he can be made to obey my voice?"

"…yes."

"Good. Shut him down and do it."

"I—"

" _Do it."_

Polendina sighed. "Ornstein… die."

/-/

He was free.

Gilderoy ran. The wind was biting on his skin, the ash and the sand digging in and rubbing it raw as it passed him. He could taste copper in the air, like the lightning that had gathered in the dust and in his aura that night in the colosseum. He ran and ran and ran, and didn't look back.

And, up ahead, the bright wheel beckoned.

/-/

Vengarl did not return that evening. When General Ironwood called the embassy, his voice low and impatient, it was Jaune who took the message. It turned out that Vengarl had never even reached the general's office.

All their doubts about him were put aside in an instant. "He was taken," Jaune said, shrugging on his coat and strapping Crocea Mors to his hip. "Couldn't have gotten lost. Nora, talk to… uh… what's-his-face. The embassy guy."

"Bert."

"Yeah. Him. Find out who else knows we landed. Ren, head to the authorities. Local authorities, Ironwood already knows. Don't file a report, we need anonymity, but try and find out if there have been other people going missing in the area, just in case he wasn't deliberately targeted. I'll try to follow his path. Let's go."

* * *

 **So it might feel like a bait-and-switch in that I'm kicking Polendina down a rung on the 'side-villains to watch' ladder so soon. But he's served his purpose, and to linger would disservice Watts.**

 **It feels like very little happened, and that's because... very little happened. But (and this is esoteric, I know) it felt like the right place to end. Actually, it felt like the right place to end with 'the bright wheel beckoned', because even though that doesn't make much sense yet it's an evocative image and it'll be important down the line. But I felt it more important to indicate where things are going next. Hence: Vengarl's missing.**

 **And that's important. V5 suffered from Qrow, who should be a mentor character, doing all the busywork while the actual protagonists sit in a house. That (from a narrative perspective) is why Ben Kenobi dies in _ANH_ , why Merlin leaves so early on in the Arthurian Legends, and why Gandalf leaves halfway through _The Hobbit_ (and, to a lesser extent, why Frodo and Sam ditch the fellowship in _LOTR_ ): _As long as the mentor figure is present, the protagonists cannot come into their own._ This is also one of the things V4 did right: Qrow is absent for the first half, gives some exposition, then is crippled for the second half, forcing the protagonists to reach new strengths to keep him and themselves alive.**

 **Anyway, Vengarl has been the mentor figure for a while and JNR's been suffering for it in terms of spotlight and development. Now they can do things again.**

 **Haven't decided where the focus is gonna be next chapter. Ideally, now that the stakes are firmly set for both geographical regions, I'd swap between them each chapter (with occasional digressions to, say, Oscar or Team RWBY), so in theory I'll focus on Artorias & Quelana in Menagerie next time. But Atlas has a lot of fun moving parts to work with.**


	47. Chapter 46: The Belladonnas

**It's been a while. Hello!**

 **I've mentioned before that the very first drafts of this story started at the end of Volume 2 rather than the end of Volume 1. Well, in that early draft, at the start of Volume 4 Artorias stowed away on Winter's ship when she goes to Mistral to spy for Ironwood, and the buddy-cop shenanigans continue.**

 **I bring that up as a way of saying that Quelana remains a surprise even to me. Though I'd abandoned the stowing-away idea long ago, it was only when writing Artorias' post-fall bender that I decided that he and Winter wouldn't be partners again in Volume 4 (I even briefly toyed with Winter going to Menagerie in disguise). Overall the story will be stronger for Quelana being in it, but it makes this chapter feel a little weird, as I'm throwing down her backstory so late in the game. Oh well.**

* * *

"In here." Quelana pushed a key into the lock and pushed the door in. The house was small, and so close to the docks that Artorias could still smell the fish.

"Is this your old place?"

Quelana nodded.

Artorias stepped through the door. There was a couch and a coffee table and an old television—the type from before holographic CCT receivers—all covered in sheets. The kitchen was partitioned off by a bench, which was also covered by a sheet, and the room led to a short hallway with three closed doors. Quelana opened the door at the end of the hall and threw her rucksack into the room.

"You can take this room," she said, opening the door on the right.

She'd talked about Menagerie a few times when they'd been dating. Her family had lived there since before she'd been born, but they'd moved to Izalith when she had wanted to enrol at Sunlight Academy. Artorias had wondered a few times where her parents had gone—she'd mentioned before that her mother, at least, had lived with them in Menagerie—but he'd never pried and she'd never told him more.

Quelana ran her finger along the sheet-covered countertop. A thick layer of dust came away. She pursed her lips.

Artorias tossed his bag into the room she'd indicated; there were two sets of bunkbeds within, also covered with sheets and dust. He supposed that this room had been Quelana's and her sisters'.

"You think we're gonna be here a while?" she called.

"No idea. Why?" He walked back to the main room. Ana was inspecting a gauge on the fridge.

"Low on freeze dust. Got any with you?"

He reached into his pouch and tossed her a crystal. "Hope you don't need it powdered."

"I can powder it myself." She scratched at the crystal with her fingernail and peered at it closely. "This is good stuff."

"There's not much point cleaning this place up if we're not staying long. Let's get the lay of the land first. Know anyone useful around here? Like, say, an information broker?"

"I haven't been here in seven… almost eight years, Arty. I was a child. What do you think?"

"I'll pen that in as a solid 'maybe'."

She rolled her eyes. "It's a solid 'no'."

"What about the government? Is it a council? A petty king? They might be keeping tabs on the White Fang already."

"Kuo Kana has a chieftain," she said. "Back then it was Chieftain Mildred… something. I don't remember her last name." She shrugged. "I don't know who's in power these days."

"Think you could arrange a meeting?"

"Probably."

"Alright. I'll get myself oriented, talk to the locals, see how much news has reached this place from Vale. Make sure we can get word back to Vacuo if we need to. Maybe I'll find us some food. I'll meet you back here in two hours."

/-/

"I will not kill her."

Tyrian raised a questioning eyebrow to his companion. "You would disobey our goddess?"

"I am sworn not only to her," Raime said. "Mistral is my home."

Tyrian glanced down to the unconscious huntress they'd ambushed. "Mind if I kill her, then?"

"Yes."

"Yes, you mind? Or yes, I can kill her?"

"Not yet, at the very least. Tie her up. I would speak with her first."

"I do not follow _your_ orders. My orders are to kill Mistral's huntsmen. Your orders too," Tyrian said. "Well, that and find the girl Cindy is so upset with. Anyway, this is a waste of time."

Raime sighed and reached into his pack for rope. "I may yet let you kill her afterwards."

He heard a puncturing sound and looked up from his pack. Tyrian had stabbed the woman with his stinger, piercing straight through her rounded breastplate and stabbing deep into her gut.

"Tyrian!"

"Oh, you can still talk to her. But I won't be waiting around to finish her off." Tyrian inspected the woman's sword where it had fallen in the grass and reached out to grab it. The weapon was old and chipped and splattered with the blood of Grimm, but beneath the black liquid the metal shone brightly, polished with love.

Raime stopped him with the flat of his shorter blade. "Leave it."

"It's very pretty."

"I will bury her with it."

"You're such a bore. I'd almost prefer to work with the good doctor. With _Hazel,_ even." Tyrian's nose wrinkled as he stood, brushing himself off. "Well, maybe not Hazel. What a bore. I don't suppose you're feeling squeamish about the little rose and her friends, are you?"

"They are not of Mistral."

"See?" Tyrian clapped him on the back. "You have some use after all. You deal with her, and I'll deal with these pesky huntsmen." He pulled out a notepad and ticked a name off as he walked away, whistling idly.

/-/

"Well, this place isn't ominous at all." Artorias peered up at the huge doors to the chieftain's house. "You sure this isn't the Fang's headquarters?" he quipped.

"Nope. Definitely the chieftain's place." It had turned out that one of the guards, Sean, had been her neighbour way back when, and she'd managed to get some strings pulled for a meeting with the chieftain only a day after their arrival.

Quelana reached for the knocker. It resonated throughout the house and made Artorias' ears hurt.

After a few seconds, the door was opened by a tall man, with a dark beard and thick hair, wearing a purple coat open across his chest.

"Miss Acribus?"

"Call me Ana." She nodded politely.

He nodded back, then looked Artorias up and down, his brow furrowed. "Have we met?"

"I doubt it. I'm Artorias Nym," Artorias said, holding out a hand to shake. "Thank you for meeting with us, Chieftain…" he trailed off, realising he didn't know the man's name.

"Call me Ghira. And please, come in." Ghira led them through the house, up some stairs to a study, and sat behind a desk, gesturing for the pair to sit across from him. "I don't often take meetings so early in the morning, but Sean insisted that it was important." He looked to Quelana.

"We're here about Vale," she said. "Artorias was there for the Vytal Tournament."

"Ah. Traffic between Menagerie and Vale has been down since… well, since whatever happened. We've had a few rumours come through, but nobody with the complete story." He peered closer at Artorias. "Are you certain we've never met?"

"Maybe you watched one of my fights in the tournament," Artorias suggested.

"Were you on Team Auburn?"

"No."

"Then no. I didn't have much time to watch the tournament this year." Ghira shook his head. "No matter. What happened?"

"Well—you're aware of what happened in the finals, aren't you? The broadcast with the black queen on red?"

"Of course. It's the last thing we got from the CCT network."

"On Amity, that triggered a panic. The Grimm were drawn to Beacon and Vale in unprecedented numbers. Beacon was overrun and the CCT tower was destroyed."

Ghira nodded and stroked his chin. "We guessed as much about the CCT. But what kind of numbers could overwhelm Beacon? I've not seen it in—well, in many years—but the cliffs from the forest should be too difficult for most Grimm to scale. And with so many huntsmen in the kingdom for the tournament…"

"Yeah. We should have been fine. Except Atlas' robots were hacked and turned on us, and the White Fang released Grimm into the school."

Ghira frowned. "The White Fang? Attacking Beacon? Not to cast doubt, but that is a bold accusation."

"Would we come to you to just to lie?" Quelana asked.

"Perhaps. The White Fang has many enemies; they've grown much more violent since I stepped down as High Leader. But attacking a huntsman academy? Sienna would never have approved."

"I don't know what Sienna Khan did or didn't do," Artorias said. "But I know what Adam Taurus did. He killed innocent civilians. He killed my teammate's brother, and came within an inch of killing two of my friends."

Ghira's frown deepened, and he opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, the door opened. A woman stood in the doorway, short, with dark hair and amber eyes and a pair of large cat ears. She held a tray with a teapot and a mug. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't expect you to have guests so early." She set the tray down on the desk and planted a kiss on Ghira's cheek.

"Thank you, Kali," he said. He held her lightly on the arm to stop her from leaving. "Stay a moment," he said, then returned his attention to Artorias. "Before we talk further, I want to ask you: do you know what happened to Blake Belladonna? Is she alright?"

Artorias' eyes flitted to Kali, picking up her features. The eyes, the hair, the ears… "Your sister's fine, Kali. She's on her way to Haven with her team, last I heard."

Kali's eyebrow shot upwards. "Sister?"

"…you're Blake's older sister, aren't you?"

"We are her parents, Mr Nym," Ghira said.

"Oh." He shifted uncomfortably. "It's just that, uh, I mean, I dunno what kind of faunus you are, Mr Belladonna—you have the same last name, right?—but Blake has cat ears and you have cat ears," and here he gestured to Kali, "so I assumed you were sisters from both a faunus and a human parent. Because, you know, faunus of different types can end up having kids with completely random traits?"

"My younger sisters are part spider," Quelana chimed in. "It's not subtle in the slightest. Love them to bits."

Kali smiled. "It's alright. Flattering, almost. I'm relieved to hear she's alright." She sat on the edge of the desk. "It sounds like you know her quite well. Is she eating properly? How was she getting on with her team? Does she have a boyfriend?"

"Kali, don't harass the boy."

"I wasn't super-close with her specifically, but I spent some time with her team. They seem pretty tight-knit. No, I don't know if she's eating properly, but hey, she's got this whole self-responsibility shtick, so probably. And…" he glanced between the two parents. Ghira's face was passive, stoic. Kali's was a little brighter, though hard to read. He wasn't sure exactly what either wanted to hear. "She and my friend Sun went to the dance together, and they got along pretty well, but I don't know if they're in a relationship or anything."

Ghira remained expressionless. Kali smiled and said, "Well, I wouldn't want her to rush into anything. I don't want to hold up your meeting any longer, but do you mind if you stay behind afterwards? I'd just like to talk a little more."

"No problem, Mrs Belladonna."

She gave Ghira another kiss on the cheek. "Now this little stressed-out kitty cat can stop pacing all night and finally get some sleep," she said.

"Kali!"

She hopped off the desk and made for the door. "Be sure to drink your tea before it gets cold, Ghira."

Ghira sighed and poured himself tea. "This news does do a lot to put our minds at ease, but there's still more to do, I suppose. I'm meeting with two representatives from the Fang later this week. I'd rather speak to them privately about this first. I'm well aware that abroad they've turned to violent tactics—for better or for worse—but I can't deny that they do a lot of good in our community here, and they have some sway over public opinion. If they choose to protect Adam Taurus, I can't afford to alienate them. With the CCT network down, we need unity in Menagerie."

"Look, Ghira, we understand that the politics can get messy. We're not looking to get involved in that. We're here to get to Adam Taurus and take him down," Quelana said. "Will you help us?"

"I certainly believe he could have done what you have accused him of. Even when I knew him…" Ghira sighed. "I trust that you speak the truth, but I will not act in haste. I'll make my decisions on how—and whether—to help you after I meet with Corsac and Fennec." He stood. Artorias and Quelana followed suit. Ghira reached out to shake their hands again. "I'll get back to you by the end of the week. I have half an hour before my next appointment. Kali ought to be waiting for you downstairs. I'll join you in a minute."

/-/

The huntress stirred some two hours later. Raime had dug her grave, then moved to sit by her side. Upon removing her helmet, he'd found her to be an old woman, all wrinkled cheeks and laugh lines and crow's feet, in heavy round metal armour. "You…" she breathed out, trying to push herself up.

"The venom is acting quickly," Raime said, pushing her back down. "You'll only cause yourself more pain."

"Leo asked me out of retirement for this," she complained. A hacking cough expelled blood. "Bastard…"

"What is your name?" Raime asked.

"My sword," she wheezed. "I'm not facing an afterlife without it." Raime pressed it into her hands. She sighed as she grasped it, then hacked out something resembling a laugh. "If I could move, I'd stab you."

"I'm sure."

Her eyes flickered shut for a moment. It was clearly an effort to keep them open. "Sieglinde," she whispered. "My name is Sieglinde. My grandson… he wears a suit of armour, just like mine. Tell him I love him."

Then he was a huntsman too. Raime grimaced. If her grandson were on a mission—and he surely would be—Tyrian would find him first. "I'm afraid I can't."

"Course not." Her breathing was shallow now. "Who…?"

"I am Raime."

She pulled in a deep, ragged breath, then said, "Nah. He's dead. Long dead. Or too old to walk."

"Look at me, Sieglinde."

With the last of her strength, she raised her head. "…Raven Knight…" she breathed out.

Then she fell backwards and breathed no more.

Raime pressed her eyes shut.

She was right. He should have died long ago. He took her in his arms and stood, taking notice that the joints in his legs did not protest, then moved over to the grave he'd dug under a nearby tree. He took another look at her face, wondering where she'd seen him, when she'd seen him, how she'd known him.

Perhaps she'd seen him at the king's side. She looked to be in her sixties, but aura was a good preserver of health—she may have been older. She'd called him the Raven Knight after all. It was a name little-remembered.

But if he'd seen her in those days, he couldn't recognise her now. She was old and wizened, but he had been aged by exhaustion and experience, not by time, and he still looked much the same as he had eighty years ago. She clearly hadn't had that luxury.

Raime sighed and knelt next to the grave, tipping her into it, then reached for the shovel. He could not think of what to say. To thank her for her service, which he had been ordered to end? It would be insincere.

When he had filled her grave, he reached for her helmet and her sword. His helmet he rested on the dirt above where her head was. He knelt down on the grass and wiped the black blood from her blade, then looked at his reflection in the polished steel.

He was one-hundred-and-seventeen years old. He didn't look a day over forty. But he felt it—not in his bones, which had not weakened, nor in his mind, which had not dulled—but in his heart.

He grimaced and thrust the blade through the top of the helmet and into the soft soil, pinning both sword and helm to the ground as a marker of Sieglinde's grave, then turned, collected his pack and his own helm, and departed.

/-/

"We need to have ears in that meeting."

"Oh, good. You've stopped pacing." Quelana glanced up from her scroll. Artorias had been restless ever since leaving the Belladonna family home, pacing back and forth in the kitchen like a caged animal.

"We can't leave this one to chance. Ghira could screw things up for us accidentally by even telling them we're here. Or they might convince him we're lying, and then he could screw things up for us _intentionally_. We can't risk it."

"He said he trusts us. I say we do the same." Quelana's tongue darted out to smell the air. "You're burning dinner," she said.

Artorias' eyes widened and he turned to the stove, shutting off the dust conduits and sliding the omelettes from pan to plate. "I meant to do that."

"Look, Ghira seems like a good man. He cares about his people, he cares about his daughter, he's sympathetic about Beacon. He's going to do what he thinks is right, and his moral compass seems to be pointing in the right direction."

"We talked to him for an hour, Ana. That's not long enough to get a measure on him. He trusted us quickly; who's to say he wouldn't trust the Fang if they refute us?"

"You know his daughter, right? Do you trust her?"

He set the plates down on the table, narrowing his eyes at her. "See, I know you're about to make an argument about apples and trees and how one doesn't fall far from the other, but I don't think that's valid. Blake never mentioned her parents at all, and they clearly haven't been in contact with her since long before Beacon. I don't know they're that close."

"What makes you say that? You and Kali talked about her for ages."

"Sure, they care about her, but that doesn't make them close or alike. It takes more than blood to make a family. Yes, I'd trust Blake if she were in her father's position. No, that doesn't mean I trust Ghira."

"Oh, now you're just being difficult. Seeking out the chieftain was _your_ idea."

"I'm just being cautious. What about that guard? Sean, right? Think we can trust him?"

"You're scared." Quelana leaned across the table. "Never thought I'd see the day."

"Of course I'm scared! You weren't at Beacon, Ana. You don't even know—" he shook his head. "Adam's dangerous enough already. We need to stay focused."

"What's really going on here? Is it this queen? The 'other people' responsible for Beacon you mentioned? That's not our business unless they get in our way. Will they?"

"I can't say. And not because I don't want to. But… look, there's a lot at stake, Ana. More than you know. More than _I_ know, I'd wager. Adam could have all sorts of—he could have _her_ on her side. Just… trust me. Please."

"Surely you can give me a little more."

Artorias sighed and poked at his omelette. "Cinder Fall," he murmured. "The woman on the broadcast, her name is Cinder Fall. She killed Pyrrha. Ozpin."

Quelana pursed her lips. "Oh," she said. "Oh damn."

"I don't know how deep her ties run with Adam, but she was the mastermind behind Beacon. And for all I know, they're still working together. She's dangerous, Ana. Maybe the most dangerous person in Remnant. We can't take risks."

Quelana was quiet for a time, slowly eating her omelette. After a few forkfuls, she said, "You must despise this."

"Huh?"

"Six months ago you were adamant about being dead in a ditch. Look at you now. Being cautious. Responsible to the point of paranoia."

"That'd be because it's still very much on the cards. Dying, I mean."

"That's not my point," she said, pushing her half-finished plate away from her and leaning back in her chair. "My point is that you quite literally made me dinner in my childhood home."

"This is bigger than our relationship."

"We can talk about all these 'big stakes' later," she dismissed. "Before you went to Beacon—not to be harsh—but I don't think you cared at all whether you lived or died as long as you were enjoying yourself. And that's why we broke up. What changed, Arty?"

"Aside from Gough losing his eyes, Beacon falling, and G—" he grimaced, "and Pyrrha fucking _dying_ , what do you think, Ana?"

"You knew Pyrrha well, then?"

Artorias huffed and stabbed at his omelette, not eating but pushing it around his plate. "A bit. I dunno if I'd say we were friends—we didn't really hang out—but let's say I was invested in her and her partner. I helped them out once or twice. Nudged them towards each other, gave Jaune a few pointers."

"Sounds like you cared."

"Yeah. Maybe I did. Is that a crime?"

"I didn't say it was." Quelana ate calmly, one forkful at a time, slicing through the omelette cleanly and carefully. Between mouthfuls she continued, "If this 'Cinder' killed Ozpin and Pyrrha and is responsible for the entire Beacon incident, then why spend your time on Adam?"

"Why do _you_ care?" he asked. "Why are you actually here, Ana?"

"What do you want to hear? Because I care about you? Because I'm looking for an adventure? Because my team left me behind to gallivant in New Londo and I had nothing better to do? Tell me why Adam matters to you."

"Because Gough matters to me. And this matters to Gough. And… I failed him." He clenched his fist. "I failed him, Ana. I was guarding him when the Nevermores took his eyes. It's my fault. I wasn't enough when he needed protection and—gods—I wasn't even _there_ when he needed a friend. I owe him."

"You don't owe him anything, Arty. You needed time to grieve too." She scoffed. "When did I become your therapist?"

"Hey, you asked."

"I did. You're right." She sighed. "I know you did your best to protect him. He can't ask any more of you. And he can't ask you to shoulder his burdens as well as your own. That's not fair."

"He shouldn't have to ask in the first place."

"He had others," she said. "But you needed to be alone."

Artorias turned his focus to his food.

"I'm not trying to change your mind, Arty. I know, it's bigger than Smough, you can't say why, this Cinder girl is dangerous. I get it. But you need to stop beating yourself up. Keep a clear head. Did you ask me along as muscle or to give advice? Because we both know you've the better muscles."

"And the better brain."

She rolled her eyes. "Give Ghira a chance, you fool."

Artorias sighed. "Alright."

* * *

 **Raime's got a lot of fun stuff coming this volume.** **If I ever hop back to _Special Beings_ (and I've been thinking about it a lot lately), this might not be the last we see of Sieglinde :)**

 **I'm off uni now, so I've got a lot more free time, but my personal life became super-complicated recently, which might eat up some of my time. I _am_ trying to get back into the habit of writing regularly though, so... I'll see y'all soon?**


	48. Chapter 47: The Golden Man

"You're very late."

"I brought wine."

Salem rapped her fingers against the tabletop. Patches grinned sheepishly at her, presenting the bottle of red.

"Is it any good?"

"I haven't tried it, but I can tell you this: it was cheap."

She sighed and gestured for him to sit, then silently commanded a Seer to bring glasses.

"Cinder has already told me of Sulyvahn's betrayal."

"Has she now?" Patches raised an eyebrow.

"As best she can."

"She was very clever. She tricked him into confronting Oz, you know."

"Don't try to pass off the credit. I know you had a hand in it. I appreciate it."

He shrugged. "Well, he was dangerous."

Salem nodded in agreement. "More's the pity. A semblance like his is a rare and precious thing. But it's no matter. Do you have the relic?"

"Do you want the long answer or the short answer?"

"Patches…"

"Short answer: no."

She sighed. "And the long answer?"

Patches pursed his lips. "I was just doing a bit. Uh… nooooooooo?"

"Oz must have found a new host already. He's had the time. Do you have any _good_ news? Were you, perhaps, delayed because you were seeking him out?"

"I've told you: I'm more than happy to keep your little insane asylum in line, but I'm not getting involved with this whole anti-Oz thing. It's not my business. And besides, I was buying wine."

The doors to the hall opened. The Seer entered, wine glasses grasped in its tendrils. It placed them down on the table, and Patches poured.

"How's Raime?" he asked. "Did he even make it out of Vale?"

"Yes. His performance in Vale was poor—I should have recalled him the moment his task required more than brute strength."

"Settle down, the man was a knight. I'm sure circumstances just…" he trailed off, sipped at his wine, then smirked. "Well, I'm sure he had a lot on his plate." He smacked his lips. "For the price? This isn't so bad."

Salem frowned and gave the wine a taste. It was tart, with a sharp, unsettling aftertaste. Her frown deepened into a grimace and she pushed the glass aside. "I almost revoked the sword."

"Really?" Patches raised an eyebrow. "And who would've you given it to?"

"Cinder, perhaps."

"Can she even lift it? She's a bit… waifish."

"She could soon."

Patches gulped down some wine. "Very ominous of you. So she _was_ wounded. I saw the silver eyes go off. Hard not to, really."

"But you did not respond to my Seer."

"I'm your friend, dear Salem, not your servant, and don't you forget it."

"A friend would answer such a call."

"A call to arms? Or, like, a call on the phone? Because you're clearly going for the former." Patches topped up his glass. "Let it rest. The traitor is dead. I'm just here to see you."

"I don't have time for pleasantries."

"We're immortal. We have all the time in the world."

"Not until Oz is dead."

"Look, the man's a git, but come _on_. Would it hurt to let loose a little? For all we know, his new host hates his guts just as much as we do."

"Or they're already gathering his allies."

"By Gwyn's knock-off crown, you're such a Debbie downer." Patches rolled his eyes. "I assume you want _something_ from me. Spill."

"I've sent Tyrian and Raime to Mistral to thin the huntsman population and to bring back that silver-eyed girl. I want you to keep an eye on Raime."

"Oh really? You think he might be having second thoughts? Garbage pay, no space for upwards mobility, and being _lied_ to—"

"Glib doesn't suit you."

"—for eighty years, and you think he might be getting a bit restless? No, never!"

"I have never lied to him."

"Sure."

"I won't repeat myself." Salem pursed her lips and reached for her wine glass, taking a long drink before setting it back down. Her face twisted with distaste for a moment. "His failure with the summer maiden was… disappointing. I sent him there to test him. Mistral is his former love, after all."

"Just don't ask me to do his job for him, and we have a deal."

"Of course. I just want to know whether or not he has doubts—and whether he will act on them."

Patches nodded, then stood. "Don't call me unless it's for a drink." He headed for the door. "And have you ever heard of a scroll?"

/-/

Atlas Academy was quiet.

School would not resume for some months yet, and with the cross-continental network down, the tower was empty save for a few guards. A few students with nowhere else to go over the break slept in their dorms, and in the military wing, some specialists working large cases hunched over their desks, fuelled by caffeine and willpower alone.

And, in his office near the top of the tower, General Ironwood brooded. Vengarl had not shown up on any street-cam footage—the paranoid bastard had probably avoided them on purpose, unless he'd been taken immediately after exiting the embassy. _He could be anywhere in the city by now_.

The elevator dinged, and Ironwood turned in his seat, pushing a button on his desk to grant entry.

Jaune Arc entered. "Have you heard anything?" he asked.

"No."

"Well, I have. I found this on the way here," Jaune said, pulling something free from his coat: a shard of rusted iron. "Almost cut my foot on it. The snow had almost covered it. It's from one of Vengarl's swords."

"Where?"

"On, uh, on a street that opens onto Alsius Square, near that bakery—"

"Lift Street. I know it." Ironwood grabbed his coat and ushered Jaune back into the elevator.

"Vengarl told us about the maidens," Jaune said, after a few moments of silence. "I, uh… thought I should mention."

Ironwood pursed his lips. "He shouldn't have," he said. "But these are dangerous times. If he trusts you, I will too. But say nothing more of it, to anyone." Truth be told, Ironwood had wanted to tell a few people, Winter at the very least. Ozpin had always vetoed it. But Ozpin was gone now: they had to find their allies where they could. And, now that he considered it, if he were to die, his successor would be in the dark, completely and utterly.

Perhaps it was time to tell Winter, Ozpin's approval be damned.

"Yeah," said Jaune. "We got that memo loud and clear. Or, um, more like quiet and mysterious. But we got it."

The days of an Atlesian winter were short as it was, but Vengarl had disappeared late in the evening, and it was so dark Jaune couldn't even see his own feet. There was some light snowfall and a strong wind that even their heavy coats couldn't ward entirely. Their scrolls alone illuminated the road.

"Show me exactly where," Ironwood directed.

"It was here," Jaune said, moving a little further down Lift Street to where it turned onto the road leading to the old west wing of Alsius R&D.

Ironwood swore again. Doctor Polendina worked below there. His hand came to rest on the handle of his gun. "We'll need backup." Doctor Polendina had all sorts of mechanical guards, not to mention Ornstein. Normally he'd be able to bypass most of them—but if Doctor Polendina had gone rogue, he may have overridden the security protocols.

"My team's coming." Jaune gestured further down the road. Two figures approached, bundled in hoods and jackets and scarves and gloves, but with weapons carried openly.

"General," greeted the man with a pink streak in his hair.

"This is—"

"Lie Ren and Nora Valkyrie. I remember them." He'd seen them in the tournament, and in the report of Vengarl's arrival.

"Did you find anything?" Jaune asked them.

Ren shook his head. Nora said, "Bert said he sent the report to the military. Could have been anyone above, like, a captain's rank or something."

"I wish I could dispute that," Ironwood said, "but I suspect I know who did it. Follow me. And be vigilant."

He led them into the building. The upper floor was full of snow and dust and old crates of equipment going as far back as the war. Moonlight filtered through a glass skylight. Towards the back was an elevator. "Everything you see down here is confidential," he said. "You do not repeat it to anybody. Do you understand?"

"Of course."

"Yep."

"Yeah."

It was hardly binding, but it would have to be enough. Ironwood glanced to the elevator: it was the fastest way down, but was an easy ambush if Polendina were expecting them.

"Stairs," he directed. "Weapons ready." He glanced around for the security cameras. Doctor Polendina refused to have them in his lab, but kept them on upstairs—though he was usually too distracted to notice a visitor. Ironwood spotted one in the corner. There should have been a red light blinking under the lens, but it was dull and lifeless.

Something wasn't right.

It was a long way down. Ironwood took point. At the bottom, the door was locked. He pressed himself to the door, listening quietly for any movement on the other side, but heard nothing.

"Doctor!" he called.

Silence.

His patience thin, he shot the lock. The door swung open.

They emerged from the stairs into the hall—ahead was the door to Polendina's lab. It was sealed. Ironwood removed his glove and readied his thumb over the sensor, gesturing for the others to take position across from him.

The door slid open.

"Go, go!" They stormed in, weapons raised.

In the middle of the lab, next to the metal table where Penny Polendina had first been given life—where Gilderoy Ornstein had been brought back from the brink of death—lay a body, diminutive in stature, its white coat stained red with blood.

Ironwood grimaced and holstered his gun. "Check for a pulse," he said to Ren. "Jaune, Nora, check the back rooms. Make sure we're alone."

Jaune glanced between the body and Ironwood, then nodded and headed off with Nora.

Ironwood moved over to the doctor's terminal, booting it up and logging in. That he still could was a good start, but when he looked through the files for the security footage, he found that it had been wiped going back an entire week.

"He's dead," said Ren.

Ironwood sighed and nodded. "Very well." That the body had been left behind suggested that this had been a crime of passion—but the wiping of the security footage indicated much more. Familiarity regarding Polendina's security, for one. An understanding of evidence and how to hide it.

Most likely, somebody from inside the military had done this, somebody with practice in covert operations… a specialist. Maybe it had been the same person who'd taken Vengarl. The thought made Ironwood grimace.

Or, perhaps, it had been Ornstein.

"All clear," Jaune said, returning with Nora.

"Are you certain?" Ironwood frowned. Where had Ornstein gone? Had he broken free?

Nora nodded. "Mm-hmm. Did the doctor make it, Renny?"

"No."

One of the Doctor's hands were outstretched, a finger pointed still at the ground. He'd been dragging it in a circle on the floor to create a bloody symbol: a ring.

"You three need to leave," Ironwood said. "Get some sleep, but be careful. Whoever took Vengarl might be after you too." He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "I need a drink. And a rest. I'll contact you in the morning."

/-/

"Good morning, Vengarl."  
Groggily, the old man blinked himself awake. The back of his head hurt, and when he moved his leg he heard a clinking sound. Looking down, he saw that there was a chain wrapped around his leg, the other end attached to the wall.

Looking up, he saw that he was also in a cage.

Somebody severely overestimated his ability to escape.

Through the bars of the cage, he saw that somebody: a man with green eyes and a dark moustache. Vengarl recognised the man from one of his files.

"Mr Watts," he greeted.

"Very cordial. As befits a knight, I suppose." Arthur Watts leaned against the stone wall. Vengarl guessed he was in a basement somewhere—he could see stairs leading to a closed trapdoor just past his captor. "You've been out eight hours. Did you enjoy your sleep?"

Vengarl narrowed his eyes. "Why am I here?"

"I decided to dispose of you because you know why I'm here. I decided not to _kill_ you because, to be frank, your knowledge could prove useful, should you be willing to divulge it."

"No." Vengarl rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling the dregs of sleep slip away. "It wasn't you. It was the man in the golden armour."

"In my employ… though employ might be a strong word for it. He's away on business right now, but you're not missing much. He's hardly decent conversation anyway. Now: I know _what_ I'm looking for in the painting. But rumour has it there's a certain _who_ in there as well. What do you know about a girl named Priscilla?"

Vengarl laughed. "Nothing at all."

Arthur straightened and shrugged, then moved for the trapdoor. "I have plenty of time, Sir Vengarl. I'll wait until you're ready."

/-/

"I shouldn't have to say this, but just in case: nothing I say here leaves this room. You can trust nobody— _nobody_ —save myself and Specialist Schnee."

Jaune nodded. He knew Ren and Nora were doing the same.

Since they'd seen him the night before, General Ironwood seemed to have fallen apart and put himself back together again. Bags hung under his eyes, and his hair, usually neat, was stuck up this way and that. The beginnings of a shabby beard were developing on his jaw. But he carried himself the same way: his chest out, his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze stern.

"I am confident that the attack on Doctor Polendina was carried out by people working from within the military, and I suspect his death is related to Vengarl's disasppearance," he said. "As such, I need you three to look into this for me. You'll have as much of my support as I can offer without drawing the killer's attention."

"Well, we were going to look into it anyway," Nora said.

"I expected as much."

"Where should we start?" Ren asked.

"I'm bringing in an unaffiliated doctor from Loyce to perform the autopsy. I can't trust any in Atlas. There'll be one report that I'll put in a fake file as the start of an open-and-shut investigation, while I'll give the real report to you."

"What about suspects? Do you know anyone who'd want to see Vengarl—or Doctor Polendina—harmed?" Jaune asked.

"By all accounts, this is Vengarl's first time in Atlas in over eighty years. I don't know anybody who'd know him. But Doctor Polendina had his hands in all branches of the military—and he pissed a lot of people off." Including, as it happened, James himself. "He was well-known by some for calling Aisling Sulyvahn the devil incarnate, however. It's possible this was some religious retribution—especially with the recent arson attacks."

"Can you put together a list of military personnel who are among the Deep Faithful?" Ren asked.

"I could, but not without raising suspicion. Unless they're being investigated, a person's information is confidential—and this investigation cannot be official." Ironwood rubbed his chin. "There's an ongoing vigil being held for Pontiff Royce on the north side of the city. You might be able to get some names there. And Specialist Schnee is looking into the arson case. If the two are connected, her input could be invaluable."

"We'll look into it," Jaune said. "When will you have the autopsy?"

"Three days at most. We shouldn't meet in my office any more—I'll bring it to you. Meet me at the southern gate at sundown, three days from now." He raised a hand to dismiss them. "And good luck."

/-/

"This is reconnaissance only," Winter said, setting her ship down a few hundred metres from their destination. "We get in, confirm activity, and get out. Flint, keep the engine running in case things go south."

Flint nodded. Ever since the confrontation with Sulyvahn, the man had been weak and frail, his aura somehow dimmer and all control he'd had over his semblance lost—but if he let self-pity get to him, it was only in his most private moments. Despite enrolling in the specialist recruit program, he wasn't yet at all ready to head out on foot. He did have a provisional pilot's licence though, so he was far from useless.

"You two, with me," Winter called to Solaire and Hawkwood. It had been a surprise to Winter that Hawkwood was part of the program. Where Flint was determined and Solaire idealistic, Hawkwood struck her as anything but. She couldn't tell what he hoped to get out of it. Certainly not a sense of fulfillment: he acted as if _nothing_ could give him that.

But he was a half-decent warrior, and understood the value of discretion far better than Solaire or Flint, so she was glad to have him along.

They departed down the boarding ramp, wrapping thick winter coats around them to ward the cold; the blizzard had picked up again in the early hours of the morning, and had yet to fully abate. They were outside the city walls, and snow stretched out in every direction. To the east, through the snowstorm, she could make out the vague silhouette of the abandoned factory.

She drew the sword they'd taken from the fanatics and inspected it closely. In her research the night before, she'd found that it was the same type mass-produced for the Grand Army of Mantle in the days of the war. The factories that had made them were supposed to have been shut down since the treaty, but this one looked brand new.

"Come on," she said.

The quiet of the snowstorm unsettled her. The hair on the back of her neck prickled, and she thought she saw shapes moving far off, veiled by the storm. She rubbed at her eyes. She'd not had much sleep; her research had preoccupied her.

She glanced over her shoulder to check that Hawkwood and Solaire were close, and for a moment swore she saw a third figure behind them—but when she blinked, it was gone.

"Is everything alright?" Solaire asked.

"Keep an eye behind us," she said. "Something feels off."

"Nothing feels anything," Hawkwood grumbled. "The cold's made everything numb."

"You were already numb to everything anyway," Solaire quipped.

"Shut it."

Despite Winter's misgivings, they made it to the factory without incident. Concrete walls rose two stories high, enclosing the compound. Winter pressed her hand to the wall and conjured glyphs running up it, boosting Hawkwood up first. He rushed up, clinging to the top to peer over it.

He looked back down, gave a thumbs-up, then slipped over the top out of sight.

Solaire and Winter followed a moment later. A crack of thunder sounded above them as they landed. Winter glanced up, confused. She'd seen no lightning.

They'd landed in a loading-zone out front of the factory proper. The corrugated-iron door at the factory's rear was open, and a truck was backed up to it. They ducked through the door, Winter taking the lead this time, and ventured deeper into the factory.

Now that there was a roof between them and the sound of the storm, they could hear the sound of machinery within. Winter took out her scroll—she'd downloaded old blueprints of the building before coming—and led them down a hall that ought to have led to the factory floor.

As they approached, they heard a scream from within.

Winter's hand dropped to her sabre. Hawkwood reached for his sword. Sparks crackled around the handkerchief clenched in Solaire's hand. But Winter held up a hand for them to wait: it may have been an accident with the machinery.

There was another scream, and the _clang_ of metal on metal. Then more. Then the rush of boots on concrete, coming their way.

"Back," Winter hissed. She'd rather not be spotted.

Before they could get out of sight, she heard a _thump_ , and glanced back towards the entrance to the factory floor.

Blood pooled into the hallway.

Cursing, she drew herself upright. "Come on," she said.

The factory floor was chaos. Workers fled for any exit they could find, grabbing what weapons and waving them wildly behind them. A body, its back slashed open, was draped over the lip of a smeltery, his hair on fire and catching on his clothes. And, chasing them down, was a figure in golden armour, his helmet made in the image of a snarling lion.

In his hands was a bident drenched in blood.

"Specialist! Stop where you are!" Winter said. "Drop that weapon!"

The golden man looked over to them—then disappeared in a flash of golden light and a crack of thunder. He reappeared across the room, his bident impaled on one of the factory workers. Spark dust crackled where it had been rubbed into grooves on his armour—it flashed bright again as he took off out a side door, trailing lightning in his wake.

"Check for survivors," Winter said, glyph's lighting beneath her feet to give chase. She found him in the next hallway, disappearing out the door—the hall itself was a bloodbath, everyone inside already cut open. There was nothing she could do for them.

She burst out the door into the blizzard and followed the golden trail he left behind, her semblance working overtime to propel her into range. She caught up to him as he leapt over the compound wall to make his escape, launching herself up to him and slashing at his throat. Her sabre bounced off a yellow aura, but it threw his balance. He landed in the snow and rolled, giving her time to close the gap again.

Winter was fast. Of that she had little doubt: all huntresses were fast, but she was fast even among them.

But this man was faster.

Aura sparked up the shaft of his weapon, and the blades on his bident shone brilliant gold beneath the blood.

"Gilderoy?"

If she was right, he didn't acknowledge it. It was all she could do to backpedal away from his bident, more a whirlwind than a weapon as it came at her from this way and that, a wall of gold and dust and steel that she couldn't hope to overcome.

He knocked her down into the snow, too soft for her to kick herself back onto her feet. He raised his weapon, but hesitated for a split second—

Then he was gone, a blast from his bident propelling him away.

* * *

 **Hello again! Thanks for the 1 review; I'm glad you enjoy this story. And I'm not often one to beg for internet points, but hey, if any of y'all other readers want to throw some validation my way, feel free ;)**

 **As if there was any doubt, yes, Watts took Vengarl. And also killed Polendina, which is kind of a shame because he could have been taken in a lot of fun directions, but at the same time he'd served his purpose, and to push him further would have been indulgent of me (the same could be said about me not killing Torchwick in V3, but damn if I don't have something fun lined up for him in, like... a bit. Quasi-soon).**

 **Ironwood's paranoia leads to him working off-the-books with a bunch of first-year upstarts. Nice going, Ironwood. Real talk, the most important contributor to Ironwood trusting them was Jaune mentioning he knows about the Maidens. Sometimes, honesty is the best policy. Nice going, Jaune.**

 **And, of course, Ornstein. We're taking a break from his existential dread to have some edgy murder fun times. See what happens when you take a guy whose semblance literally just _buffs shock dust_ and make it his primary fuel source? opopopop**

 **At some point I'm going to have to slow down Winter's thing and talk about Solaire's backstory a bit, but he's in the same position as Quelana was last chapter, but even worse: he's been around a hell of a long time and it's hard to bring it up naturally at this point.**

 **Next week is a big one for me IRL, but I'm definitely getting back into my _TFI_ groove here, so I'll be working on it when I'm not busy. You can expect the next chapter before Christmas.**


	49. Chapter 48: By Thy Burden

**Thanks for the reviews, folks. Always nice to feel appreciated :)**

 **One of the reviewers asked a question, and I PMed a response but I thought I'd also address it here in case other people are wondering the same thing. So the question is basically why I went with traditional Dragonslayer Ornstein colours (gold) instead of Old Dragonslayer colours (black, dark purple). I'd have gone with Old Dragonslayer if, say, he'd been implanted with a parasitic Grimm ala Cinder and Raime, or if he'd _willingly_ gone along with Watts' plans. But because he's unwilling in this situation, the gold imagery is supposed to symbolise that he's still 'one of the good guys' but being used as a tool.**

 **Anyway, on with the chapter.**

* * *

Artorias sat alone at a table in the corner of the tavern, one finger tapping idly on the rim of a glass of water. Quelana sat on the upper level with the man Ghira had sent with them, Captain Rodentia. It was late in the afternoon, and people were just coming in from work for a drink. Soon, the place would be loud and rowdy. But for the time being it was warm, comforting, inviting.

"They admitted to Adam's involvement and called him a traitor," Ghira had told Artorias, "but they must have known for a while, and this is the first they've spoken of it to me. They say they want to handle Adam internally. I don't trust them, but they want to talk to the 'witness from Beacon'—their words, not mine. See what they want. Spin things your way, if you like."

Artorias sipped at his water. He glanced back up to the upper floor.

He'd not come armed or armoured: he was walking into a casual meeting, not a battlefield. But Quelana had wearing his gauntlet hidden in her robes, so that if this were a trap she could toss it down.

Quelana's eyes flickered down to him, and she nodded subtly.

"Mr Nym, is it?" Two men sat down across from him, both with similar long features and orange eyes. One had a pair of fox ears, the other a tail. They wore hoods and robes in the colours of the Fang.

"And you must be the Albains."

The shorter of the two, with the fox ears, drummed his fingers on the table. "I am Fennec," he said.

The taller, Corsac, nodded once by way of greeting. "Chieftain Belladonna tells us that you have suffered hardship at the hands of people claiming to act for the White Fang," he said. "We offer our condolences."

Hollow words. Artorias suppressed a scowl. "Thank you," he said, his words as empty as theirs.

"We wanted to speak with you because we are concerned that you will spread word of events at Beacon. Adam Taurus is no longer a representative of the White Fang, and we do not wish to see his actions tarnish our reputation here."

"I've only told Chieftain Belladonna," Artorias said. "And I understand that there are politics involved, but Menagerie deserves to know. It's in Ghira's hands now."

"And Ghira has agreed not to speak of it—which is why we are speaking to you now, to ensure that you will keep your silence. The wider community of Menagerie will be informed as soon as Adam has been apprehended. We want you to know that we are working every day to see that he is."

"I'm glad to hear that," Artorias said, "because so am I. I say we work together."

"Mr Nym—"

"Call me Artorias."

"Artorias," Fennec began again, "while we appreciate the offer, it is a matter of integrity that the White Fang handle this without outsider assistance."

"I'm going to do this with or without your help," Artorias said. "I'm just saying it would be easier if we worked together. Hell—I'm a faunus. If you don't want outsiders involved, I can just sign up, right? Where would I go to do that?" He leaned forwards, eager for them to try and call his bluff.

"We are holding a recruitment drive out at Kuo Rikuhu tomorrow, however—"

"Great. I'll be there." Artorias stood and held out a hand for them to shake. "We'll catch this bastard together, yeah?"

"Please sit down, Mr Nym," Corsac said.

"I can sign up right here, then? I'll have to borrow a pen, but—"

"Mr Nym, while your offer is appreciated, we are concerned that you are too emotionally close to the matter," Fennec said. His voice was not raised, but it was rushed now, clipped.

"So? I'm a huntsman, Misters Albain," he said, stretching out their name a little longer than necessary. "If you're going to take down Adam, you'll need someone like me, emotional distance be damned."

"Adam is no mere Grimm—"

"You want a CV?" Artorias sat back down. "Fine. Well, for a start most Grimm are a little more than 'mere'. Say, my team took down the Dragon at Beacon."

"Mere in terms of their intelligence," said Corsac. "Adam is far more cunning than any Grimm, though I'll admit your claim to be impressive."

"Well, it _was_ mostly Gough. Okay, how about this? I beat Pyrrha Nikos."

"A first-year student, albeit talented."

"Roman Torchwick and Neo Politan." Not that he'd _beaten_ them, but he'd walked away with all his limbs intact. That was an achievement.

"Common street criminals. Mr Nym, we truly appreciate your offer and your enthusiasm, but it really is best if you leave this to—"

"Arthur Quill," he said, cutting off Fennec. The two brothers' silence was telling: they knew the name. "I killed Arthur Quill."

Fennec cleared his throat. "He was hardly a combatant—"

"You knew him."

Corsac pursed his lips, then nodded. "Of him. We never met him in person."

"And you know what he was doing in Vacuo."

"We do. The White Fang does not condone it, but—"

"Does Menagerie know?" Artorias took a long drink of his water, then crossed his arms on the table. "Are you _really_ going to tell Menagerie about Adam's little bloodbath once you bring him in? Or is that a lie?"

"We will," Corsac said, "because they are likely to hear rumours. We see no need to fuel the rumour mill until he is dealt with, but once he is we will shut it down. Arthur Quill, on the other hand, failed. Word of his actions never—"

"Sure, sure, that's fair, but what about Ghira? I'd think the chieftain, at the very least, should know."

"He was never told," Fennec said.

"I think he'd be very interested to hear that the White Fang has been hiding attacks against huntsman institutions for over three years now. He'd be most displeased with you for your omissions. For better or for worse, after all, the White Fang claims to speak for all faunus. Your failures reflect on Menagerie."

Fennec's eyes met his, narrowed. "Very well," he said. "We'll bring you on board to deal with Adam Taurus."

"But this works both ways," Corsac said." We will provide you what information you need, but you will not act without first informing us."

"Deal."

Fennec crossed his arms. "We know for sure that Adam's faction has people on Menagerie, but we've not yet managed to apprehend any of them. We think they're watching the Belladonnas."

"Makes sense. Adam seemed obsessed with Blake. He must be having them watched in case she comes here." Artorias nodded, then stood. "I'll see if I can catch them. Lovely to meet you both."

Fennec mumbled something under his breath. Corsac nodded in return. "Good luck, Mr Nym."

/-/

At the bar, Ilia Amitola heard the wolf faunus' footsteps leaving the bar. Once he was gone, she turned on her barstool and made to stand.

Corsac held up a finger, indicating she should wait. His eyes flickered upwards.

Ilia nodded slowly and sat back down, turning back to the barkeep and picking at her peanuts.

About five minutes later, Fennec sat on the stool to hers.

"He was not alone," he explained. "Saber Rodentia and some woman were listening."

"I see." Ilia shifted her weight and crossed her legs. "Are they still here?"

"They're gone," Corsac said, sitting on the opposite side.

Ilia nodded. "That didn't go very well."

"It's not ideal, but Ghira already suspects us. If we are to be spied on, I prefer to know who the spy is. And besides—had he spoken of Quill to Ghira, I believe Ghira would have gone to Sienna directly, and _that_ we cannot afford."

"It's better this way," Fennec agreed. "We can keep a closer eye on them, control what they learn. They think they have us in the dark. I expect them to act behind our backs sooner rather than later. Keep a close eye on them," Fennec said to Ilia. "They must not disrupt Brother Adam's plans. And stay well away from the Belladonna household for the time being. We'll have somebody else take the fall."

/-/

"Ozpin?"

Oscar breathed into his hands to keep them warm. It was late in the evening. The last lights had winked out in the main house. He stood on the barren, snowed-over field, shivering even in his heavy jacket.

News had come from Sakuraso, the nearby town where Oscar and his aunt often sold the farm's produce. Grimm activity was up. Beowolves, mostly.

Deadly.

"Ozpin?" he called again.

He didn't feel comfortable talking to Ozpin in his room. That was a private space, and Ozpin was hardly welcome. So here he was, his teeth chattering, speaking to a man in his head who hadn't talked in weeks.

Oscar cursed. They couldn't afford to hire a huntsman, but Aunt Lentil didn't want to leave. Didn't think the risk was worth abandoning their home. Bandits had been out in force too ever since the CCT went down. If they left, somebody else would move in.

"I'll bet he's being spiteful."

Oscar jumped in surprise. Lucatiel sat on the ground behind him, idly tracing her finger through the snow but leaving no tracks.

"Excuse me?"

"You know, for wanting to wait out the winter instead of bowing to his every whim and immediately leaving your family, your home, and everything you've ever known to run off to Haven." She snorted. "He's a dick like that."

"I haven't seen you in a while."

"You haven't had need of me in a while," she responded, "but now you do."

"You can help me?"

"Maybe. What is it you want, Oscar?"

"If the Grimm come, can you help me?"

Lucatiel stood and rolled her shoulders, then clasped her hands behind her back. "You'll have to be more specific."

"Can you fight them? Do you know somebody who could?"

She smiled humorously. "No, Oscar. I can't fight them. Maybe Ozpin knows somebody."

"I can't talk to him."

"It goes both ways, kid. Remember when he asked you my name? You can read his mind just as he reads yours. It just takes some practice. You're doing it right now, in fact."

Oscar felt something stir in the back of his mind, like a brief pulse of a headache. He had Ozpin's attention.

"What do you mean?"

"I am just as much Ozpin's guilt running wild as your imagination."

"So if I find the real you, you could help then? Is that what you mean?"

Even as he asked it, an image surfaced in his mind. A painting, a hat, a tomb, the names _Priscilla_ and _Vengarl_ and blurry faces to go with them.

Lucatiel laughed. "I suppose so. But you're asking the wrong questions. You need a huntsman, and you already have the best teacher of huntsman living in your head. You don't need somebody to protect you. You need to learn how to protect yourself."

"But I—"

"Can't?"

Oscar pursed his lips, then sighed, his shoulders slumping. "I guess I'll have to."

"You certainly must. You are both weak while your aura remains locked. I am surprised he has not unlocked it himself. Perhaps he is waiting for you to start following his orders. Or perhaps he is hoping for you to die, preferring his chances in a different host."

Oscar's eyes widened. "He wouldn't, would he?"

Lucatiel scowled. "I wouldn't put it past him. But that is neither here nor there. You have enough strength to unlock your own aura, but you do not know how. Ask him. Maybe he will offer up the memory. Maybe you will have to take it by force."

Oscar nodded, took a deep breath, and squared his shoulders. "Ozpin?"

No response.

"Not out loud. Look for it. His memories are yours. Close your eyes. I will help you."

Oscar closed his eyes.

"Your name is Osric."

He was a man with a youthful face made old by war. A scar marred his lip, and a tall crown topped his head, its golden spires reaching as if to stab the sky.

For a moment he saw the desert, and _the Ringed City_ whispered in his mind louder than the clash of steel—

But then the desert was gone and his scar with it, and his face was made youthful once more save his ancient eyes. In place of the grand crown he wore a simple circlet.

"You personally oversaw the first, disastrous crossing to Anima."

He saw walls, shining marble walls that sparkled in the light of the sun. He saw a white tower rising at the city's back, framed against a grey mountain. He turned and through the gates he saw ships, two or three dozen mighty vessels with the crossed axes of Vale flying at the top of their masts. On the city walls he saw pennants of blue and gold and white, and kneeling soldiers in steel armour adorned with the same colours, their helmets held under one arm, and yet more soldiers, among them Lucatiel, who stood rank and file by the gate, their arms raised in salute.

"You gave them your blessing."

Among the kneeling soldiers he saw a face that looked almost like Lucatiel's but masculine, younger, a hint of stubble under the chin.

Osric held his hand to the man's head.

 _"For it is through duty that we earn immortality. Through this, we humble ourselves as servants of virtue and glory. Infinite in distance and unbound by death—"_

"—empower my soul, and by thy burden bind me," Oscar said.

He felt Ozpin again in his mind, though this time not painfully, but simply as a light touch on his thoughts, like the raising of an eyebrow.

He opened his eyes and Lucatiel was gone. But, looking at his hand outstretched as if to touch the young man's head, he saw a brilliant green light trail from his fingertips that soon faded away.

/-/

" _I'll bet my next drink you're being watched by now."_

"You reckon?" Quelana lay back on the couch with her bowl and adjusted the grip on her scroll. "When's your next drink?"

 _"Gods only know,"_ Artorias said. He was out, watching over the Belladonna household for the White Fang's spy. He'd been out the past week, since their meeting with the Albains. He'd not come back to the house since so as to hide their association.

Not that it wouldn't be already known—that was why Captain Rodentia had been at the meet-up, after all. But they had to pretend to hide it, at the very least.

"And how expensive will it be?"

 _"Depends if I'm right or not."_ She heard a bat screeching over the scroll.

"Where are you hiding?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "A cave?"

 _"A tree. This is my new friend Barry. He's not even hungry."_ He sighed. _"I made the mistake of feeding him the last few nights and now he expects it. Say hello, Barry."_ She waited a moment, but there was no screech. _"He flew off. I hate animals."_

She chuckled, almost knocking over her soup. "That's not how I'd put it. Recall the time you didn't show up to Grimm studies because Alvina fell asleep on your chest and you didn't want to wake her?"

 _"No, but I remember a time I missed detention because_ you _fell asleep on my chest."_

"It's your own fault for boring me to sleep. And you could have woken me."

He didn't have a response to that. _"Now's probably a good time. Take the back streets, down past the night market, then loop around the chieftain's estate. I'll see if anyone's tailing you."_

"Not right now. I'm eating dinner. Fish soup."

 _"Really? Haven't heard any eating."_

"It's still cooling." It was certainly freshly cooked, but it didn't burn her hands at all.

He stifled a laugh. _"Sure. Be quick. I'm going to reposition. I'll see you in fifteen minutes."_ He ended the call.

Quelana turned her attention back to her soup. She was hardly three spoons in when her scroll buzzed again, the caller ID displaying a picture of her and Artorias.

She answered.

She could hear his feet crunching rapidly, as if on sand or on thatched rooftops. _"Got someone,"_ he said, between breaths. _"Herding her your way."_

"Very well."

She hung up this time, then calmly stood, still carrying the bowl of soup in her left hand, and made for the door, flipping open a pouch of dust on a shelf. She reached in for a burn dust crystal, then opened the door, stepped outside, sat down in the middle of the street, put the dust on the ground in front of her, and waited.

While she waited, she ate more soup.

About three minutes passed before she saw a masked woman in dark clothing turned the corner and came barrelling up the street towards her. Her hair was grey, and grey veins ran up and down her arms, condensing so strongly in her hands that they were themselves almost entirely grey. On her left arm was a shallow cut that her grey aura sparked to heal.

 _How terribly drab_ , Quelana thought to herself, adjusting her grip on her bowl to keep the spoon in place with one hand.

With the tip of a finger on her free hand, she touched the dust crystal. A spark of her aura sent a wall of flame flaring outwards to block the street. There was a slight moment of panic when it almost reached the wooden building opposite, but she reached out with her free hand and clenched her fist, halting the wall's spread.

The masked woman skidded to a halt and turned the other way, where Artorias was coming up the street to meet her.

Quelana went back to her soup.

The masked woman, finding herself trapped, reached out with a hand for a rooftop, and a web shot from her wrist to pull her towards it. Artorias' hand shot out, launching his dagger from his belt. It severed the rope before she could reach the roof, and she slammed into the building wall before falling back to the ground. By the time she'd recovered, he was already standing over her, sword held to her throat.

Quelana noticed that a few civilians were peeking out their windows at the commotion. One even came outside, the old man with walrus tusks from the building across from her house.

"What on Remnant do you think you're doing?" he asked angrily.

Quelana let the fire flare in his direction. Not close enough to hurt, just to singe his eyebrows a little. He recoiled.

"Enjoying my soup," she said.

* * *

 **I've always felt that Quelana has a very dry wit, where Artorias can be a little over-the-top. But, as with all relationships, they do rub off on each other a little.**

 **Y'all might have noticed I throw to Oscar or Raime or even Winter (to a lesser extent) once a chapter as a B-Plot to indicate the vague passage of time for the A-Plot (Artorias/Quelana and Ironwood/JNR). It's kinda lazy, but it works, so... imma keep doing it.**

 **Anyway, idk when the next chapter's gonna be. I'd _like_ to squeeze it in before Christmas, because after Christmas I'm going to start job-hunting. But I can't say for sure this time whether I can fit it in. Ear to the ground, I guess.**


	50. Chapter 49: The Legion of Farron

**I was thinking I'd be able to get this chapter out while still on 69 reviews, because... you know, but then a guest review came in a few days ago, and while I _could_ remove it, I'm a little concerned for the reviewer. Guest Reviewer, are you alright? Do we need to call the ambulance?**

 **Anyway, belated, "Nice."**

* * *

A door swung open, and a bell chimed. A man stepped into _Reap and Sew_ , a little store on the cusp of Mistral's lower city. The walls were adorned with knitted rugs and patchwork quilts in ugly, mismatched colours, and shelves throughout the store held smaller items: handkerchiefs and pocket-squares and satchels.

"We're closing soon," said the short old woman sitting on a stool behind the counter. "If you've business, don't take too long."

The man who'd entered ignored the assortment of items available to buy, walking directly towards the counter. "Maria Calavera?" he asked.

Maria glanced up from the newspaper. Her mechanical eyes shuttered. The man was tall, with an angular face and slanted eyes. "Can I help you?"

"I was thinking I could start by helping _you,_ actually. The colour coordination in here is lacking something fierce."

"Well, if I had any control over it, I might apologise. Perhaps you should learn to respect your elders."

"Perhaps you should learn the same."

Maria peered closer. Her vision wasn't what it once was, true, but he hardly seemed an old man, despite his baldness. She guessed him to be in his mid, perhaps late thirties.

"If you're not here to purchase something, you should leave."

The man glanced around. "You're hardly busy."

"And I'm not obliged to entertain you," Maria said. "Let me know if you see anything you like."

"Well, what price would you put on information?"

Maria laughed. "If you want to buy a newspaper, there's a corner store a block away. If you're looking for something a little more… well, _more_ , I hear it's worth following the spiders. But I'm an old woman, and nothing more."

"You're far more than that. You're the Grimm Reaper."

Maria's eyes shuttered. She put her newspaper aside and adjusted her posture, her fingers brushing the cane hidden under the counter. "That's news to me."

"No need to play the fool. If I wanted you dead, I'd not have come alone." He held a hand out for her to shake. She didn't take it. "You may call me Lapp."

"What is it you want, young man?"

"I want to know what happened on the day you lost your eyes."

"And why should I tell you?" she asked.

"I can pay."

"I'm hardly in need of lien."

"It's a hell of a lot of lien."

"I've left that life far behind me."

"But it's catching up to you. You see, the man who took your eyes is still alive, and he's in Mistral. His name is Raime Marabel. Eighty-one years ago now, I saw his throat sliced open on the dunes of Vacuo. He attempted to broker an agreement with Chief Bremen of Menagerie three days after the Battle of Fort Castle and was hanged for… well, for poor timing, mostly. At the Fall of Beacon he was thrown from an airship—while it was still in the air, mind you—by a soul-warped monster, and he survived the fall. Nothing can kill him. Not war, not execution, not gravity—not even old age."

Maria's fingers drummed the countertop.

"You sound ridiculous," she said.

"You've heard stranger stories, I'm sure."

"I thought it to be a defensive semblance. Immortality is a step further than I'm willing to believe on your word alone."

Lapp laughed. "It's more common than you think. It's just… odd, in his case. And isn't that whole silver-eyed warrior thing pretty far-fetched? Yet you are living proof of it. Tell me what happened, and I will find a way for him to die."

She sighed. "Very well. It's not like I owe him any sort of protection. But I'll still be taking that lien."

"Naturally."

Maria folded her newspaper and set it aside. "Where to start? I suppose at the beginning. On the western shore of Lake Matsu, there used to be a town called Brume. The only way to get there by land was through a canyon, where the Grimm were easy pickings, and the only way by boat was along a steep, narrow pathway cut into the cliffside, which prevented the Grimm from attacking from the lake. But one day—oh, forty, fifty years ago now—all word from Brume ceased. No more traders, no more travellers. Haven sent a third-year team by air to investigate. Among the dead they found eleven survivors who all spoke of a giant Nevermore that had slaughtered the town… and of the Fume Knight, the man riding on its back who had spared them only to deliver a message: that the Grimm Reaper must journey to Brume before the autumnal equinox, or another town would die. The survivors were urged to return to Mistral immediately, but they didn't want to evacuate to Mistral until the team could determine the fate of a local huntsman who, after the massacre, had ventured into the canyon to clear the way out.

"Four huntsmen-in-training journeyed into the canyon. Only one returned. Of the missing huntsman, she'd found no trace. She'd barely escaped the Fume Knight with her life." Maria sighed. "I was… arrogant. Many doubted that the survivors of Brume were telling the truth about the knight. Fear makes the mind run wild, after all. But I believed them. I _knew,_ going in, that it would be an ambush, but I chose not to seek backup. I had always worked alone, you see. Kept my identity, my eyes, a secret." She raised a hand to her face and touched her mechanical replacements wistfully. "Nobody even knew I answered his message. All Haven saw what that he never made good on his promise. The story of the Fume Knight was attributed to group hysteria brought on by survivor's guilt—and, to be fair, there was some element of that in the retelling. But the Fume Knight was real. And he beat me."

/-/

"Shouldn't we have waited until we talked to Ironwood?" Nora whispered. "Like, I _get_ what Jaune's saying, you know, Vengarl's in trouble, we can't afford to hesitate and all that. But Ironwood's, you know, an authority. Big authority. And if we're wrong—"

"Then we won't get caught." Ren pressed himself against the wall of the house. With the wind and the snowfall, he didn't expect to be seen, but it was still good practice to keep his profile low. He checked his scroll: one minute until Jaune began his distraction.

At the wake for Pontiff Royce, there had been a few names that had come up, but only one that had stood out: Eliza Farron. One of the candidates for the Irithyll election—the election which Vengarl had been ordered to oversee. While not affiliated with the military, as a huntress she'd have had plenty of contacts in the Specialists who could've leaked their arrival, and she definitely had motivation to silence him.

They weren't scheduled to meet with Ironwood for another day. Jaune had decided not to wait.

As a public figure, it hadn't been hard to locate her home: a humble yet sizeable two-story house near Irithyll's northern wall. The plan was for Jaune to knock at the front door and keep the resident there under the pretence that, as an ex-student of Beacon, he was looking for a mentor to further his education.

Or something.

Jaune had claimed he'd be able to improvise and drag it out if he had to. The important thing was that Eliza would be kept at the front door.

Ren's scroll ticked over to four o'clock. It was time. He nodded to Nora, and she cupped her hands. Ren ran at her and used her as a stepping stone, leaping towards the wall and grabbing onto a second-story windowsill.

The window, predictably, was held shut by a latch, but he slid one of StormFlower's blades through the gap in the windows to lift it.

/-/

The green door was answered by a woman only a little younger than Winter herself, with auburn hair and dark bags under her green eyes. A long, bushy tail flicked back and forth behind her.

"Miss Fowler," Winter greeted.

"Winter. Come in, out of the cold." Her eyes flickered to the young man walking a little behind Winter. "And Solaire. It's been some time. Still lurking around the academy?"

"I'm a student now, actually."

"Oh. You're finally old enough." She shut the door, then turned back to him, brow furrowed in thought. "Second year or third?"

"Going into third."

"Right. Right."

Winter removed her gloves and her coat, hanging them on the rack and glancing around the house: a staircase not far from the entrance led to a second floor, a spacious dining area could be seen on the left, and a somewhat-more-private study through an open door on the right. "You've done nicely for yourself."

"I suppose I have, despite… everything." Winter suppressed a wince. Lily Fowler had been in the year below her at Atlas, and they'd fought against each other in the duo round of her last Vytal Tournament, hosted in Atlas. It had ended with Winter and Lily's aura dropping below the safety limit at almost the exact same time, leaving it to 'unbiased' judges to decide the result.

The victory had gone to Winter, but Winter—and all the other huntsmen watching—knew she'd lost. Lily had subsequently been pressured out of the Specialist program.

"I did my last semester abroad, as a student-teacher down at Sanctum Academy. Landed a job there right after graduation. They paid well, but I quit last year. The commute could be a bit much." She gestured vaguely to the house around her. "Just bought this place with the savings. Real estate's been getting cheaper and cheaper in Irithyll lately, which didn't hurt."

"There's a very good reason for that."

"I know." Lily sighed and pointed them towards the study. "I suppose we should talk."

/-/

"Hello!?"

Jaune's fist pounded the door, then retreated into the pockets of his coat. It was still storming outside, and had been for so long that Jaune was beginning to think that this was all Atlas had to offer: wind and snow and endless cold.

"Miss Farron?" he called.

The door gave no response.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Nora peaking at him from around the side of the building. He shrugged to her, and, when she realised that nobody had emerged from the home, she approached.

"What's going on?"

"She's not coming out. Maybe she's not home?"

"I mean, it's a big house. Surely she'd have like, a maid or something," Nora suggested.

"It's not that big."

"Look at you, all 'growing up in a loving home with a large family'. How big was your house, then? Hmm?"

"Now's not the time," Jaune muttered, knocking on the door again. "Is Ren inside?"

Nora nodded.

Jaune rubbed his chin. "Head back around and wait for him. I'll keep trying, just in case she didn't hear—"

He was cut off by the muted rumbling of an explosion from inside the house.

He and Nora shared a glance.

"Ren!" he called.

There was no response.

"Does it really matter if she's home at this point?" Nora asked.

Jaune shook his head. "Can you get the door?"

Nora raised Magnhildr.

/-/

Hawkwood Crest reclined in his chair, his eyes blankly staring at the screen in front of him. The ongoing blizzard—combined with the failure of the CCT tower in Vale, and the recent arson at the Irithyll relay—had screwed up the local network something fierce. So here he was, stuck in the backup relay (a dingy old shed behind the police department), his scroll plugged into a dusty old terminal, trying (and failing) to send Winter's report to Ironwood on the factory and the psycho in the golden armour.

The skylight above him opened, showering a little snow into the shed, and Flynt dropped in, snow melting off his coat in the warmth of the dust he held tightly to his chest.

"How's the antenna?" Hawkwood asked.

"Should be fixed." Flynt said, shrugging off the coat.

Hawkwood glanced back to the terminal. "Still no signal, though."

"Yeah, well, you can go up to adjust it if you want. I'm staying put."

"Bad work ethic, I see." Hawkwood tsked. "I don't know how you expect to be a Specialist with that attitude."

"Says you, sitting on your ass." Flynt leaned against the terminal and rolled one of the dust crystals around in his palm. "And I'm not here to be a specialist. It's just to help me adjust."

"You're aware you signed up for something called the 'specialist recruit program', aren't you? And what do you mean, 'adjust'?" Hawkwood raised an eyebrow. "Semblance aside, it's not like you can't play your trumpet anymore. There are many good fighters who don't know their semblances. Solaire, for example."

"Forget it."

"Come on." Hawkwood leaned on one of the armrests and settled his chin into the crook between his thumb and forefinger. "What's up?"

"We're not friends, dude. We're just peers. Coworkers now, I guess."

"Do you mean to say you've confided in _Neon_ about this? She hardly seems like a pillar of support."

"She can be more mature thank she looks." Flynt sighed. "But no, I haven't. That doesn't mean I should confide in you instead."

"Sure. Sure." He glanced back to the terminal: he finally had some signal. The window told him that the file transfer would take seven minutes and twenty seconds.

 _It's not even that large a file,_ he thought. Inwardly, he cursed the blizzard—and then, as an afterthought, the damn fanatics who'd burned the relay proper.

His gaze returned to Flynt, and a grimace crossed Hawkwood's features. "I… want to apologise," Hawkwood said.

"For what?"

"For… you know. That night at the church. Sulyvahn."

"It's not your fault. You made the right call, and in the heat of the moment I ignored the Schnee's advice. I screwed up. Now I've got to live with it."

"No, it's not just that." Hawkwood pursed his lips for a moment. "I've not told anyone this, not since I came to Atlas. But I grew up in a religious family. Deep Faithful."

"Never would have guessed. What's your point?"

"I grew up just outside Irithyll. Every year, my family and I would attend mass at the Cathedral of the Deep on the day of the Saint's Feast. I was young: I couldn't have known what he'd do to Vale, or Vordt... or to you. But I've had this nightmare, over and over, since that night at the church. I'm at mass. You're in the choir, with your semblance. Sulyvahn gives his sermon. It's the one from the Book of Architects, about how we're all doomed. We're all born sinners. It's the one that made me abandon the faith. At the end of it, he points to me and calls me a traitor. His clerics tie me to the altar, then he calls you down and gives you a knife."

Flynt's arms were crossed. "Shit," he said at last. "I didn't know you felt that way. That's… I think heavy is the best word."

Hawkwood looked him in the eye. He wasn't sure what he wanted to see. Forgiveness, perhaps, so that he could forgive himself. But he wondered if it would help. The church's teachings, though he held no stock in them, were still a part of him, deeply engrained into his moral fibre. And they taught that all men were guilty.

But Flynt's eyes held curiosity alone. He didn't understand Hawkwood's guilt.

But Hawkwood found that he understood what Flynt meant had when he'd said he was _adjusting._ Because just as the church he'd abandoned remained a part of Hawkwood, so too was Flynt's semblance a part of him. And the fact that others had succeeded without semblances did little to soften its loss.

Hawkwood shook his head. Flynt had his own issues to work through; it was selfish to burden him with more. "Forget it," said Hawkwood.

"If it makes you feel better, I accept your apology."

He'd thought it would. It didn't. Hawkwood turned away, scowling, to check the upload: four minutes to go. It felt like an age away.

"You know," Flynt started, "if you were religious, your perspective could be useful. These assholes share your faith."

"Not anymore."

"Right, right. Still—"

From outside, through the blizzard, they both heard a sound: a distant _pop_. Muted though it was by the wind and the walls, he imagined it could have been far closer and, in reality, been more of a _crack_.

"You heard that too, didn't you?" Flynt asked.

Hawkwood nodded.

Then there was another, and another. More and more, growing louder and more frequent, sometimes bursts of the sound, sometimes alone.

"That's gunfire," Hawkwood said. And it was coming from the police department. He drew his sword. "I'll get the door."

Flynt unbuckled the holster on his leg that held his trumpet.

Hawkwood threw the door open. The howling wind quietened any further sounds—but they saw someone emerge from the building across from them: a woman in a black mask and red cloak. Slung across her back was a sword, and there were pouches of dust-ammunition strapped to her belt.

And, in her hands, she was reloading her revolver.

Flynt stepped into the open doorway, his broken semblance doing little more than leaving afterimages, raised his trumpet to his lips, and blew.

The chord that sounded was deafening, discordant, painful. The skylight shattered, raining glass into the shed and letting the snow fall in freely; cracks began to web across the old terminal screens behind them.

But the wind carried the note away before it could reach the woman.

Behind her, more people emerged into the snowstorm, a dozen or more, all in masks or helmets or hoods. All cloaked in red. All with swords.

"What are they doing here?" Hawkwood seethed.

"Where do we go?" Flynt shouted over the storm.

The compound was walled; to get out, they'd have to fight their way through—unless…

The _ping_ of a bullet off the metal wall jolted him out of his thoughts. He suspected that, if the wind hadn't thrown its trajectory, it'd have taken a chunk of his aura. He glanced up—they were pushing through the snow towards them, swords drawn.

Hawkwood shoved Flynt back into the shed and slammed the door closed. The lock was flimsy and wouldn't hold long. He checked the terminal: the cracked screen displayed 2 _minutes remaining_. He cursed: they didn't have enough time to wait. He'd just have to leave his scroll and hope that the fanatics didn't notice the upload until after it was done. "Up," Hawkwood said, moving to stand beneath the open skylight. From the roof of the shed, they ought to be able to get over the wall and disappear into the storm. His boots crunched on the shattered glass. "I'll boost you."

/-/

The front door in splinters behind them, Jaune and Nora charged into the building. The smell of burn dust assailed their nostrils, and they followed it into a cupboard under the stairs, in which they found an open trapdoor. A ladder led into the darkness below.

"Ren?" Nora called.

"I'm okay." His voice was close, with only a little echo coming from down the tunnel. "Just a trap." He coughed loudly.

Jaune descended first, Nora close on his tail. It was not a long drop, nor a long tunnel. The walls were built of stone brick, although the closest end was covered up by wooden planks, as if it led on further and had been sealed. The illumination of their scrolls was muddied by the smoky air. They could see the light from Ren's scroll further down the tunnel.

"You alright?" Jaune called. "Is it safe to come up?"

"It was just the one on the door here. You should be safe."

When they reached him, they found him slumped against the wall by a large, open ironbound door. The floor around its hinges was scorched. The explosion had pierced Ren's aura, and shrapnel had left shallow cuts on his forearms.

"You're 'alright'?" Nora said, half-mockingly half-scoldingly. She sheathed Magnhildr and moved by him.

"Dodged the worst of it. Nasty surprise." Ren offered a little smile to reassure them. "I'll be fine."

"Wait here," Jaune said. "Keep an eye on the trapdoor. If anyone comes—"

"Shoot first, ask later. Got it," Nora said.

"No. No! Definitely not that. Just make sure Ren doesn't get hurt. We don't know for sure that—you know what, Ren, you're in charge of your own protection."

"Yay."

Jaune patted him gently on the shoulder as he passed.

The next room was a dead end, small. Against the back wall was a wooden desk strewn with papers, a map, blueprints, diagrams, and above the desk was a rack for holding weapons—though none were present. To his left was a large trunk, closed and padlocked, and to his right was another door that, when he opened it, revealed a closet full of men's suits.

 _Weird_ , he thought.

He investigated the desk. He saw the drafts of letters, some addressed from Tristan Fowler and others from Eliza Farron and more still from 'the Legion', whoever or whatever that was. They were written to people from all walks of life: clerics and specialists and soldiers and tailors and factory-workers and miners and bakers and huntsmen. He couldn't make head or tail of their contents. He suspected they were written in code. He could find no mention of Vengarl.

He found also a map of Irithyll. Many locations were crossed out in red: the Cathedral, the CCT relay, one of the police stations. There were more places he didn't recognise.

Another map was labelled 'siege tunnels'; it didn't take him long to find his location on it, a dead-end room in the north. Tracing the map, he saw that there were many, _many_ entrances outside the walls—and at one of them were written the words 'last resort'.

 _That's ominous,_ he thought.

But, of Vengarl, he could find no mention, nor of Doctor Polendina. Regardless, there was no doubt that whatever was going on down here was bad. Hadn't there been news reports of arsonists in Irithyll? He frowned in thought. He was pretty sure the Cathedral, at the very least, had been burned down.

He unshouldered his backpack and began shovelling documents in.

"Are we alright out there?" he called out.

"All clear," Ren responded.

"Nora, can you get this lock?" He pointed to the trunk off to the side.

She gave an enthusiastic response and entered, Magnhildr raised.

"Gently," he said. "Don't know what's inside."

"Fiiiiiine," she said.

He was glad to have said so, because once she'd popped the padlock off, they'd found the trunk to be full of burn dust.

/-/

"I wanted to ask about Tristan Fowler," Winter said. Solaire sat awkwardly in the chair next to her, unsure of what to do with his hands. It was a nice study: comfortable couches, a fireplace in the corner, bookcases covering the back wall, a side-table with a framed photo of Lily Fowler's team, Team Fennel.

Lily's reaction to the name was more than Winter expected. The younger woman almost spilled the tea as she passed it over, her hand jolting violently. "Who?" she asked, when she'd settled back into her seat.

"…your grandfather?"

"Oh. Oh, right. I never met him. He died long before I was born."

"Is your family's history important to you, Lily?" Solaire asked. "I mean, did your family talk about him much?"

"Once or twice. My dad told me that he and my grandfather had a pretty big falling out. Grandfather fought against the faunus in the war, you see. He'd never have approved of Mum at all. They used to say it's probably for the best he died. But I don't know. Never met him." Lily frowned. "I'm sorry, I thought this was about all that dreadful cultist business."

"It is. A weapon one of the cultists has been using was commissioned under the name Tristan Fowler. Do you know of anybody who would use his identity?" Winter asked.

"No. Not at all. I don't even know anybody who knew him when he was alive. Dad passed two years ago, Mum didn't last much longer."

Winter shifted in her seat. "I'm sorry to hear that"

Solaire leaned forwards. "What about friends of the family? The commission came through the academy forge: whoever it was, they _knew_ his name would be in the records."

"Surely his file would also list him as deceased," Lily said.

"It does, but the forgemaster accepted the request anyway."

"Sounds like you should take it up with the forgemaster, then."

"We did," Solaire explained. "The request was sent over the CCT. He never saw their face. He just got the blueprint and the credentials. He told us it wouldn't have been the first time a huntsman has faked their death and needed help afterwards, so he put it through."

"And he didn't report it immediately?"

"We're not here to talk about the forgemaster," Winter said. "What about the weapon itself?" She took out her scroll and placed it on the table between them, bringing up a sketch of the gun. "Does it look familiar?"

"I guess…" she trailed off, pursing her lips.

"Lily?" Solaire asked.

"I've seen somebody experiment with a weapon like that, but they committed to something else. One of my students. At Sanctum. But I can't remember his name… what was it? I feel like it started with an, uh, an 'F'."

"You're a terrible liar, Miss Fowler," Winter said.

Lily frowned. "I won't say, Specialist Schnee. I refuse."

Winter sighed. "I don't want to arrest you, Lily."

"Why are you protecting this person?" Solaire asked. "She has burned monuments, killed Pontiff Royce. Deep Faithful are scared of going outside at night because of her, and rightfully so. Their place of worship, gone, their leaders, gone, their security, gone. Why are you protecting her?"

"His name is Tristan Fowler," Lily said quietly, "and that's all I'll tell you."

"That's just an alias. What's her real name?" Winter asked, raising her voice a little.

"How dare—!" Lily started, but then closed her eyes, counted silently to five, and spoke again. "His real name is Tristan Fowler."

"Lily, please. If not for your sake, for Irithyll's. For Atlas."

"I owe Atlas precious little. And I have not lied."

On the table, Winter's scroll crackled. The image of the weapon disappeared in favour of a red exclamation point and the symbol of the Irithyll police department: an emergency broadcast. She could hear Solaire's scroll buzzing in his pocket as well: every scroll and terminal in Irithyll would receive it.

The picture quality was low, full of static, but she could recognise a black mask.

 _"We are the Legion,"_ she said. _"And for bearing a—"_ and here a few words were obscured by static— " _the weakest among us have been slaughtered. Deliver Winter Schnee and the huntsman in the golden armour to us at the Irithyll Police Headquarters, or all of Irithyll will be cleansed of—"_ and again, the transmission was garbled. _"Send no others. We have hostages."_

The broadcast ended.

Lily's face was pale.

* * *

 **Hawkwood and Flynt are more fun to write than I expected. The issue came that the earlier drafts had a** _ **hell** _**of a lot of superfluous chit-chat banter. But Flynt and Hawkwood aren't on the page much. I need to make their words count, which is why I pushed Hawkwood's backstory here instead of later: it occurred to me that, for how important the Deep Faithful are to this arc, I've done very little to explain, you know, _how they work._ What they believe in. So you can expect an abridged version of the gospel from Hawkwood next time we're back in Atlas.**

 **Lily Fowler is narratively both a stepping stone towards Farron and a vehicle for juicy background racism, because Atlas is the _worst_. Also a smidge of Winter backstory, which we don't really need but I feel I can afford to indulge in.**

 **The biggest difficulty was how far to go into Maria's backstory _now_ rather than _later._ Ever since she showed up in Vol 6 I was planning to use her for basically-this (assuming she was an SEW, which, well, she was). The Tick Tock episode handed me the setting for the showdown perfectly. ****But... I already have Raime. And, as fun as her design is, Tock as a character isn't important to the larger narrative. So she's been replaced.** **Maria's anonymous Grimm Reaper identity even lets me tie up (or at least attribute to unreliable narration) a throw-away line from _ages_ ago that might have become an inconsistency.**

 **And speaking of Raime, some fun revelations in there. Yes, he's immortal. Patches can't work out how or why that is, but he wants Raime dead.**

* * *

 **Anyway, I'm not sure when the next chapter will be. I'm going to tentatively say two weeks.**


	51. Chapter 50: The Perfect Trap

Corsac and Fennec Albain, in the days not long after Ghira Belladonna's departure from the Fang, had once accompanied Adam on a most interesting mission.

On that mission, they had encountered an obstacle in the form of an atlesian security team headed by one of the kingdom's rising specialists, but the man who had hired them had helped them lay the textbook example of a perfect huntsman trap for Specialist Winter Schnee, and so, their mission had been a success.

The first element of an effective huntsman trap is irresistible bait. A man intending to commit an act of destruction that would cause a schism between all four kingdoms had gotten Winter's attention, but an informant on Adam Taurus would suffice for Artorias and his quiet little partner.

/-/

Kuo Rikuhu, Menagerie's second-largest town, lay two days' journey south of Kuo Kuana on foot—a few hours by vehicle.

It was also, according to Trifa—the spy Artorias and Quelana had captured—where she was supposed to bring her report, to an alley just off the fish market.

They'd told Ghira this, of course, though they'd withheld it from the Albains. The amount of trust in their 'alliance' was flimsy at best, and Artorias had little doubt the Albains would've tampered with something had they been informed. They'd been too resistant to the idea of him getting involved—they were definitely hiding something. The only reason he trusted the intel from Trifa was that it had been so soon after their meeting with the Albains. He doubted they'd had time to alter their plans.

Trifa was supposed to meet her handler that night. To get to Kuo Rikuhu in time, Artorias and Quelana had rented a bike from a dingy used-bike dealership on the outskirts of town. Quelana knew how to ride; it had been her primary transportation between Sunlight Academy and Izalith back in the day.

"You know," Artorias said, dismounting, "the last time I rode a motorbike I almost caused a crash on a highly-congested route."

Quelana paced around the bike, lightly swinging her arms as she went to ease out the kinks. It had been a long ride. "Somehow, that doesn't surprise me."

"We were chasing down some stolen Atlas tech, so the bike was largely unrelated."

"Was this with Winter?"

"Hmm? No. No, this was with Yang. Early last semester. I think you and Yang would get along, actually."

"Do you?"

"Yeah. Well, firstly the whole 'biking' thing—"

"It's just a convenience, not—"

"Not a hobby, yeah, you've said before, fine. She basically raised her sister, so you've got that in common. And her semblance involves fire, which you'd like."

"How so?"

"I mean, her semblance is basically hitting things really hard after they've hit her really hard, but she also sets her hair on fire."

"Do you know how gross burned hair smells?"

Artorias rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, then set off down the path into town. "It doesn't smell or anything. It's just… _burning_. Not _burned_. If that makes sense."

Ana made a so-so gesture. "Sort of."

"And I reckon she'd be your type too."

She gave him a sidelong glance. "Artorias Nym, are you—my ex-boyfriend—trying to be my wingman?"

He shrugged. "Just saying."

A faint smile crossed Ana's features, but she looked away so her hood hid it. "Is she tall?" she asked.

"About a head taller than you."

"Hair?"

"Blonde."

"And how racist is she?"

"She only made a few mildly racist jokes and only after I made them first, so, you know, that's about a nine-out-of-ten."

"If you started it, it should be fine though, right?"

"Well, she took it too far once, but she stopped when I let her know, so not _quite_ a perfect score. But close."

"Fair call. Was she at least funny?"

"We brought out the best in each other pun-wise, but I promise she's funny to normal people too, not just my weird brand of humour."

Quelana shrugged. "Okay, maybe she is my type."

"See? Best wingman ever."

"Don't get ahead of yourself," Ana scoffed. "Last question: is she into women?"

Artorias frowned in thought. "Probably. Maybe. Who knows?"

"I like those odds."

"Then I'll introduce you when this is all over."

"And when will this all be over?"

Quelana had stopped walking, and Artorias turned back to her to see she'd folded her arms.

"I don't know," he said honestly.

"From what little you've told me about Cinder—and I know you know more than you're letting on—this goes bigger than Adam. And, knowing you, you're not going to stop with Adam. You'll keep chasing the next big adventure."

"Hey, I didn't force you to come with me."

"I didn't say that you did."

"Then what do you want from me?"

"I want you to promise me that this _will_ end, and that you won't be dead when it does."

"We live dangerous lives. We're huntsmen. I don't know what to tell you."

"I can't not have you in my life, Arty. Promise me."

"Wow, if you've got this much baggage with your ex I'm not sure I _should_ introduce you to Yang. You know, for her sake."

"Don't deflect. Gods, you're a fool. I don't know why I bother." She tilted her head downwards so her hood covered her eyes and set off again.

"Ana!" Artorias grimaced, pinched the bridge of his nose, then followed her. "Ana," he repeated, grabbing her shoulder. She stopped and turned to face him, mouth set in a thin line.

"Look," he said. "I'm sorry. I… you know this is how I am."

She gently removed his hand, then gestured through the empty market. "We're almost there. Stick to the plan. I'll get in position." She veered off through the quiet stalls.

Artorias sighed, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and made his way towards the alleyway.

/-/

The second element of the perfect trap was a remote location. A place that, ideally, belonged to somebody else—it was rare for any huntsman to go down without a fight, and the locale rarely went entirely unscathed. A wild goose chase through the deserts of Vacuo had been perfect for Winter, but tonight, Kuo Rikuhu would do just fine.

/-/

A lean man with brown hair and a pair of leathery wings stepped out of the shadows. "Artorias," he greeted. "My name is Yuma."

"So we're not even going to talk about how Trifa's supposed to be here? Cutting right to the chase?"

"I assume you have not harmed her. You're here, aren't you? She must have been cooperative."

Artorias shrugged. "You work for the Albains, don't you?"

"I do."

"Then our short-lived ruse is up."

"It is."

Artorias reached for his sword. "And to whom do the Albains report?"

Yuma scoffed. "To _whom_. Is that even—"

"Yes, that's how you say it. Gods, I've spent too much time around Winter. They work for Adam, don't they?"

Yuma nodded.

"Where is he?"

"The Albains have spoken of you to him. They see you as a race traitor for your actions in Vacuo. We have been ordered to take you to him."

"Weaponless and chained, I presume."

"Yes. You are to be made an example of."

Artorias flourished his sword and assumed a defensive stance. "That's not going to—"

"Drop the weapon, Nym!"

Artorias followed the voice and glanced up to the surrounding rooftops. A strange, cylindrical blade was held to Quelana's throat by a woman with dark auburn hair pulled back in a ponytail. Quelana's dust pouch hung from the newcomer's belt.

"Well done, Sister Ilia," Yuma said.

Artorias grimaced and dropped his sword, kicking it across the ground towards Yuma, then did the same with his dagger and pouch of dust. "Let her go," he said.

"Gauntlet too. Then get down on your knees. Let him cuff you." Ilia said. Artorias glared up at her.

And he saw Quelana wink down at him, and noticed the moonlight glistening off beads of sweat running down her forehead.

Artorias breathed in deeply and placed his faith in Quelana. "No," he said.

"Do it, or she dies," Yuma said.

"Is this your first time taking a hostage?" Artorias snorted. "If you kill her, you lose all leverage. Threaten to take a finger next time or something. Maybe her ear, hostage-taker's choice."

"He's right, you know," Ilia said.

"See? She gets it." Artorias gestured up to Ilia exasperatedly. "I'm giving you to the count of three to let her go. One."

"You're bluffing."

"Two."

"You only have your shield."

"Three. Ana?"

Quelana opened her mouth, and a mote of flame burst outwards, then, like a growing seed, folded back around, flowering open to envelop her. Ilia recoiled in surprise and let Quelana go—she fell from the roof, a two-story drop to the ground. The flames around her dissipated as she focused her aura beneath her to cushion the landing.

Artorias, meanwhile, spun back to Yuma, unfolding his gauntlet into a shield and letting go of it at the last second. It slammed into the bat faunus with enough force to send him tumbling down the alleyway and making him drop Artorias' weapons. Artorias dove for them, rolling to his feet as he grabbed them.

"Catch!" he tossed his dagger to Quelana, who caught it left-handed and used it to defend herself against Ilia, who remained on the roof, sending her weapon—which revealed itself to be a whip—arcing down to strike them.

"I need dust!" Ana said.

"On it." He turned back to Yuma, who still had his dust pouch, but the bat faunus had leapt up a wall to gain altitude and now came swooping down towards him.

Artorias, taken by surprise, took Yuma's kick square on the chest, falling flat on his back. Yuma landed behind him while Artorias, struggling for breath, rose to his feet again. "Ilia!" Yuma called, throwing Artorias' dust pouch up to her, well out of reach.

Artorias snarled. As long as Ilia had the high ground, they were at a disadvantage. He ran past Yuma while he was distracted. "Swap!" he said to Quelana.

She did so, sidestepping another jab from Ilia as she turned to face Yuma. Artorias charged in, focusing his aura around his left hand. When Ilia sent her whip slashing down towards him, his hand shot out to grab it.

Pain lanced up his arm as the shock dust activated, but his aura protected him from the worst of it. With a roar, he yanked, hard—Ilia didn't relinquish her grip, and gave a yelp of surprise as he pulled her, tumbling, from the rooftop. His knee came up to meet her, striking her full in the gut. She fell to the ground, wheezing, and Artorias kicked her in the side of the head, sending her aura on the fritz. A second kick knocked her out.

No time to waste. He knelt down and grabbed Quelana's dust pouch, then threw it to her. "Ana!" he called.

She was on the defensive, ducking and weaving between Yuma's kicks and jabs and swipes, but when she heard him she stabbed at Yuma's thigh to drive him backwards, then leapt backwards herself, hand outstretched to catch it. She dropped Artorias' dagger to quickly open the pouch and grab a crystal, then stretched her hand out towards Yuma, and a gout of fire burst from her palm, burning tufts of grass below and scorching the wooden walls around them. "Surrender," she called. "You're outmatched."

Yuma glanced between them, then turned to flee, his wings assisting him in scaling a building. Quelana crushed the crystal between her hands, then pulled and stretched the resulting flame into a whip, sending it twisting and snapping towards Yuma's ankle to drag him back to the ground.

/-/

Fighting a huntsman head-on is rarely good for one's health, and so it is prudent, when setting a trap, to use somebody else as a proxy—ideally somebody who had proven themselves capable of battling huntsmen and prevailing in the past. To that end, they'd sent Banesaw—an unhinged brute who'd claimed to have killed the legendary huntress Rosaria—to fight the specialist and her allies. But for the wolf they'd made do with Yuma, who had shown an aptitude for one-on-one combat, and Ilia, who had accompanied Adam on many raids and was surely herself a force to be reckoned with.

/-/

Artorias nursed his left hand. His aura had prevented the worst of it, but the muscles felt jittery, fidgety—he couldn't keep his arm entirely still. It would go away in time.

Ilia and Yuma weren't tied up on account of the lack of rope, but they were both unconscious. So as long as they didn't wake, Artorias wasn't worried.

He glanced over to Quelana, who was trying to guess the password on the scroll they'd taken from Ilia. "I'm sorry, Ana. I didn't mean what I said before."

"It's fine. Forget it. It all worked out."

"No, it's not fine. I can tell you're unhappy, and that sucks. I care about you. Talk to me. Please."

She sighed. "Do I have to spell it out for you? You're my best friend. I have to be responsible for my sisters, and I've never felt welcome with my team. There's nobody else."

Artorias had only really spoken to them once, after sparring in combat class. Aside from that, his only interactions with them had been the occasional friendly nod in the halls. "They seem decent enough."

"They can ignore my tongue, so they pretend I'm human. Do you know what they said to me when you and I started dating? They told me I didn't have to 'make do' with 'people like you'. That I could 'fit in'."

"I didn't know."

"I came here with you because I feel… trapped in Shade, all the time. But you make me feel like myself. And if you want to call that baggage—"

"Ana, no. I was just kidding. I'm sorry. I mean, sure, it's a _little_ weird that your best friend is your ex—"

She rolled her eyes. "Here we go."

"But you're one of my closest friends too, so I guess we're both on that train." He cursed and snapped his fingers. "We're on the baggage train! It was right there."

Ana smiled. "Thanks, Arty." She gestured to Ilia. "Come on. Let's wake her up. Maybe she'll talk some now that we've beaten her up."

/-/

The most important feature of the perfect trap is a detachment from the outcome. The best way to arrange matters is to create a win-win situation: to use as either as proxy or as bait (or both) a person who not only is expendable but who would one day need to be disposed of regardless. A rival, perhaps, like Arthur Quill. Or a subordinate whose loyalty—despite Adam's oddly-placed trust, if it could be called that—could never truly be secured, such as Ilia Amitola.

But the master stroke of such a trap, Corsac mused as he watched the blood pool beneath the body of Ghira Belladonna, is not in its design but in its purpose. The textbook huntsman trap is created so that, by walking into it at all, the huntsman loses, no matter the outcome.

Which is to say that setting a trap works best when one's true goal—the theft of a strange crown, for example, or the murder of Menagerie's chieftain—is unrelated to the trap itself. The perfect trap's goal is not to achieve the huntsman's death, but to keep the huntsman far away for some hours or days, so that by the time they learn of one's real plans, those plans have already come to fruition.

Corsac looked up as Fennec entered. "Did you find Kali?"

"No. She fled in the chaos. We lost her trail outside the estate."

Corsac pursed his lips. "Very well. We have still achieved much this night. Brother Adam will be pleased."

* * *

 **A shorter chapter this time (and much sooner than I thought, but I was in the zone), but it's an important one and I didn't want to pad it out.**

 **The big bomb I just dropped, for those paying attention, is that Adam and the Albains took the relic from Shade _three years ago_ during the 39th Vytal Festival and nobody even noticed. But that's not what I want to talk about.**

 **Ana's voice is hard to capture because she has very archaic speech patterns in the source material. And, b** **ecause the voice is so hard to get down, it's important to translate the rest of her character to the setting so that she still feels like the Quelana we know from _Dark Souls._**

 **In** _ **Dark Souls**_ **, she sees herself as a coward for fleeing Izalith. She sees herself as just as much a monster as she sees her sisters. But, by** _ **Dark Souls III**_ **, she has overcome these feelings. Finding her with the Fair Maiden in death made me cry like a frickin' baby.**

 **Translating this arc to the fic basically boils down to her searching for a place to belong. Aside from her forked tongue referring—in a roundabout way** — **to the Rapport pyromancy, it's also important to how she's developed** **—and continues to develop** **—** **as a character. She _could_ pass as human but then she would be living a lie. Likewise, being bisexual** **—and only having been portrayed in a hetero relationship thus far** **—she could pass as straight. But that too would be a lie.**

 **And, yes, I'm aware that homosexuality/bisexuality isn't frowned on in Remnant the way it often is in the real world. But Remnant doesn't exist in a bubble, and I see her bisexuality as the perfect way to reflect the conflict she feels over her faunus heritage in a way that transcends the setting.**


	52. Chapter 51: One Step Behind

" _Deliver Winter Schnee and the huntsman in the golden armour to us at the Irithyll Police Headquarters, or all of Irithyll will be cleansed of heretics—and heathens—alike. Send no others. We have hostages."_

Jaune grimaced and pocketed his scroll. "We have to get back to the capital," he said. "Inform Ironwood." They'd come to Irithyll by airship, though it had cost them in lien to find a pilot willing to brave the storm. Hopefully the pilot hadn't left yet.

"We can't just leave," Ren said. He gestured to the trunk full of burn dust. "This is surely the arsonist's. And the General said Specialist Schnee was looking into that case—she must be in Irithyll. We should look for her."

"If civilians start panicking, they might try and hunt her down. Turn her over to spare themselves."

"That's going to draw a lot of Grimm," Nora said. "I hate to leave these people, but we can't afford to be caught up in that kind of fight while Renny is injured."

"I'm right here, you know. I'll need a day at most."

"Unless you two go and I stay," Jaune said. "Get Ren medical attention in Atlas and come back with the cavalry."

"No. We're not splitting up," Nora said.

"Guys!" Ren rarely raised his voice. He did so now, though for him to raise his voice was more simply to speak at a normal volume rather than to yell. It got their attention. "We can't leave. Once my aura has recovered—even a little—I will be able to hide myself from the Grimm if it comes to it. Even if I'm not at a hundred percent, I will be fine. But before we do anything else, I need first aid. Farron's a huntress; she must have something upstairs."

"Right." Jaune pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sorry, Ren. Reckon you can get up the ladder?"

Ren glanced down to his arms. A few bits of shrapnel were embedded in the flesh, and he'd not removed them so as not to keep the blood from spilling too much. Putting his weight on that would be a bad idea. Beyond that there were only shallow cuts. "Probably not."

"Alright. Stay with him, Nora."

/-/

"Lily, lives are at stake. All of Irithyll." Winter leaned forwards in her seat.

"We don't know that," Lily whispered. "The transmission—"

"Whatever it was she was going to say, it wasn't good," Solaire reasoned. "You know her better than we do. You tell us what you think she'll do if she doesn't get what she wants."

She hung her head for a moment. Then, she looked up, her eyes flicking back and forth between them. "I'm sorry," she said.

A dagger fell from her sleeve into her right hand, and she lunged across the table.

/-/

"You know, I find interrogation a rather dull affair." Watts flipped the page on the file he'd stolen from Polendina's lab. "I'd much rather have Tyrian do it. Have you met Tyrian?"

"I have not," said Vengarl.

"Strange fellow. Preoccupied at present, unfortunately. But, without the help, it falls to me." He glanced up from the file. "Salem has told me Priscilla is dangerous, but we are not entirely clear on whose side she stands, so let's start there. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

"I've already told you," Vengarl said. "I've never met her."

"But you do know people who have. Ozpin, for one. And… was her name _Lucatiel_?"

Vengarl stiffened.

"See, that's only two people, but as I understand it they're the _only_ two people for over a hundred years. Of all those living, you are the most informed on the Painted World—save Ozpin, but he's rather hard to reach, isn't he?"

"How do you know her name?"

"Let's not get distracted." Watts set the file aside and leaned forwards, towards the bars. "What happened upon her return from the painting? Did she describe it to you? Did she speak of Priscilla?"

 _Was that my name? Remember it. Please._

"It won't help you."

"All the same, I would like to know."

"Leave me alone!"

Watts frowned. "I'm not fond of torture either, but very well. I'll leave you be." He stood, collecting the file from the table. "I'll be back down in a few days. Enjoy the solitude. And the hunger."

/-/

The streets of Irithyll were empty.

Jaune saw the occasional face peaking out through windows, civilians terrified of the Legion's threat. Or perhaps they were looking to capitalise; to find the people the Legion was after and curry favour that way.

They had no way to contact Winter nor did they know where to find her, and so had chosen to follow the best lead available to them: the siege tunnels, and the 'last resort' marked on the map. They came to a crossroads. "Which way?" he asked.

Ren held the maps. "Left," he said. While there'd been an entrance to the tunnels under Farron's own house, aside from the hidden room the passage had been blocked, and not even Magnhildr had been able to open it back up again. And so, they were searching for another entrance.

Up ahead, they saw a pair of figures coming down the street. Nora pushed Ren behind her, while Jaune's hand fell to the hilt of his sword. Through the snowfall, they saw a red cloak.

Both parties came to a halt. The man in red drew his sword from his back. "Who goes there?" he called.

"You first," Jaune responded. The other figure began slowly circling around, but the snowfall didn't hide his movement as well as he seemed to think. "Stay where you are," Jaune called.

"Hawkwood Crest."

Jaune glanced to Ren and Nora. The name seemed familiar, but Ren shrugged. Nora tapped her chin in thought then her eyes brightened and she stepped forwards. "We're team Juniper!" she called. "From Beacon!"

"And you're here… why?"

"To help!"

"To help who?"

"Well, not the Legion, that's for sure."

"You know you're making it sound like the opposite, right?" Jaune muttered.

"What? Nooooo." Nora shook her head. "It's fine. They'll believe me."

Hawkwood approached. "Damn. I remember you. That Pyrrha girl fought on your team," he said, oblivious to how they winced. "Where are you headed?"

"We were looking into Eliza Farron," Ren said. "We found a map in her… basement. She's planning something in the siege tunnels."

"Didn't Ironwood give you the memo? Don't approach her directly." Hawkwood shook his head. "Doesn't matter now. We need all the help we can get. You reckon she's behind the Legion?"

"Most likely."

Flynt approached, glancing around the nearby buildings. "We're being watched," he said. "We should talk somewhere more private. And you should tell the Schnee what you found."

"You know where she is?"

"Unless she's moved on already." Hawkwood shook the snow out of his hair. "Follow us."

/-/

"Stay away!" Winter backed away, parrying Lily's onslaught with her sabre. "Her semblance makes her more dangerous against groups."

Solaire seemed hesitant, shield held in one hand and dust talisman in the other.

"Go!" Winter repeated. "Wait for me outside."

He nodded and withdrew.

Lily's semblance allowed her to see one second into the future. If Winter hadn't seen it in action, she'd have thought the advantage would have surely gone to strength in numbers, surrounding her to attack her blind spots, but in their tournament fight, Lily had been nigh untouchable, always positioning herself to make it impossible for Winter to fight without risking striking—or being struck by—her own team. And, with a semblance like hers, she'd been able to make that risk a reality with ease.

Those had been people Winter had been fighting alongside for four years at the time. There was nobody on Remnant whom Winter could trust to not get in the way in a rematch. Even summoning would carry a risk.

That wasn't to say Lily's semblance lost all its efficacy in single combat. Her ability to see an attack before it even occurred still made it extremely difficult to break through her guard.

But Lily's semblance wasn't without its weaknesses. After all, her own actions influenced the future, and even with only a second's advance warning she could cause that future to change. And, when that happened, she would be unable to predict it.

Thus, _patience_ was Lily's most powerful tool. She could see one second in the future but had to always wait until the last possible millisecond to react to that future, lest she change it too much.

It also left her on even footing while Lily was on the offensive: she was dictating rather than predicting the future, so any counterattack both reacting to actions and taking place within a one-second window would go unseen by her semblance. That being said, she was still a highly-skilled huntress, and very dangerous for it.

So Winter retreated, diving backwards over her chair and retreating through the door into the hall, then further backwards still into the dining room, leaping onto the table for the high ground and swiping with her sabre for Lily's neck as she made to follow. Lily twisted at the last second, and the blade pulled along her cheek rather than her throat, drawing out her green aura. She turned the movement into a spin as she landed atop the table, throwing all her weight into a stab at Winter's left shoulder.

Lily's weapon of choice was a dagger with a blade a little under a foot long, about a hand length's wide where it met the handle with an even taper the whole way along. It was heavy for its size, able to cut through Grimm bone plates and metal armour alike. The perfect strike would cut deep as a spear and wide as a sword. Its pommel was hollowed out to contain powdered dust, which ran up a channel along the blade. It was not unlike Weiss' Myrtenaster, Winter realised, though Lily's weapon had no cylinder and could not contain more than one type of dust at a time. Winter got a good look at it as it came hurtling towards her face. Gravity dust was the dust of choice today.

Too over-extended to draw her parrying dagger and too close to dodge, Winter brought her left hand up to deflect the strike, pushing it away so it only displaced a few hairs rather than sparking aura.

Backwards again she went. The table was clear save for a potted plant towards the middle, and as Winter reached it she retreated into a backwards handspring, kicking it up into Lily's face as she came back to her feet. It was so predictable the other woman wouldn't have even needed her semblance, but it bought Winter time to draw her parrying dagger from her sabre's hilt—and she was glad she did, for the blow Lily aimed for her chest as she came charging back in would have been difficult to stop otherwise. Winter crossed her blades to meet it, catching the blow and holding it mere centimetres from her body. A brief contest of strength ensued. Winter won and shoved Lily away, off balance. She didn't move to follow.

"I don't want to hurt you, Lily. Talk to me."

"You don't understand. He hates me!" Lily dashed back in, kicking up spilled oil from the broken plant. Winter caught it before it reached her with a black glyph, then dropped it as Lily re-engaged. "They all hate me here. And it's because of _you_ and your _family_ and those _fucking judges_ and this _fucking tail._ I can't keep doing this!"

"Lily!"

It was no use. Lily renewed her assault, faster now, frantic, her blade carving gashes in the table first, then the doorframe as Winter was pushed back towards the kitchen. A feint meant to bypass Lily's semblance went wrong—the glyph she used to correct herself barely got her back to her feet in time to block the jab Lily aimed for her throat, but Lily activated her dust and Winter found herself careening backwards, heard the sound of glass shattering, fell face-up on the snowy street.

"Winter!" Solaire called where he'd been waiting for her.

"Stay back!" Winter repeated, rising once more to her feet. Lily began to climb through the window after her.

And Winter realised her folly.

She'd thought she'd improved in the four years since they'd last fought. And she had. She was one of Ironwood's best specialists. A world-class huntress. She was Winter Schnee.

But Lily had beaten her once, and she hadn't sat idle either. She'd been a _teacher_ , for gods' sake. Of course she'd improved—more than Winter had, even. Winter was outmatched, but bringing Solaire in for backup would only make things worse. There were no good options.

There was a reason Lily had almost become a specialist. She was good. Always had been. She might have been recognised as the best huntress of their generation, if she'd had the chance to be recognised at all. And that chance having been robbed from her had only driven her to train harder.

But Winter hadn't just gotten faster or stronger or more perceptive. She'd honed other skills: her semblance. She rose to her feet, feeling her aura waning, and summoned a glyph.

Time dilation—while they had been the earliest glyphs Winter had been able to call—had never been her forte. They were hard to master and had a terrifying drawback when misused. Winter had used time dilation for the occasional Grimm, but never in sparring. It was too easy for somebody to capitalise on the drawback. And so, it had always been the weakest of her glyphs.

But since graduation she had come to appreciate it for both its strengths and weaknesses. A semblance was like a muscle. Every muscle had to be trained to strengthen the whole.

She didn't know for sure how it would affect Lily's semblance. Time dilation did not simply make her move faster. It altered her entire frame of reference so that others _saw_ her as moving faster. Winter hoped it would affect the one-second offset on Lily's semblance. How would someone fight when they were used to seeing their opponent double—one a second apart from the other—when now she saw them two or three seconds apart from each other?

At best it would throw her timing off completely… if Winter were right. But, if she were wrong, she'd at least have a few seconds during which she could utterly outpace the younger huntress.

Winter's aura flickered and crackled angrily, unstable and diminished as it was, and she poured all that she had left into the glyph.

The world around her seemed to slow. Lily, alighted on her feet in the snow, brought her dagger to bear slowly.

No time to lose. The glyph would only last so long.

Winter sheathed her parrying dagger in the sabre's hilt and raised the weapon two-handed. Lily brought her weapon up to block, but too slowly. Winter feinted with ease and sliced for her side.

Back and forth her blade flickered, pale silver drawing flashing green as it connected with Lily's aura. But it wasn't that Lily's timing was off, it was that she was no longer trying at all. She stood stock still, barely reacting to Winter's strikes, her eyes narrowed and aura spitting and screaming as she barely held it in one piece—

And then Lily's aura gave out. And, at that moment—that _exact_ moment—the world sped up.

Time dilation had its drawbacks. The length of time Winter had experienced had to become equal to the length of time everybody else had experienced. She'd been sped up, but now she had to be slowed down. She realised that her gamble had backfired.

Yes, she had broken Lily's aura, but what had seemed like six seconds to Winter had been one or two for Lily. She had seen almost from the beginning of Winter's onslaught that her aura would last _just_ long enough. That was why she'd stood her ground rather than attempting to deflect or parry, so as not to risk changing the outcome.

"Solaire!" Winter called, but she knew it was too late. To her, it looked like Lily moved as fast as lightning. Her arm shot up, and Winter found the dagger impaled in her gut.

The world returned to its normal speed.

"Winter!"

Lily pulled the dagger free, and blood spilled onto the snow. She grabbed Winter and held her up as a human shield, dagger digging into her throat—Winter saw Solaire, his talisman raised.

"Do it," she said, but already her head felt light.

Solaire wavered.

Lily's aura was down, and her semblance was fuelled by aura. All she had now were her reactions. "Do it!" Winter repeated.

Solaire roared and golden lightning crackled in his hand. It burst forth, and Lily manoeuvred Winter to block it—

But with the last of her strength, Winter elbowed Lily in the stomach, and both fell to the ground, the dagger scraping up the side of Winter's neck, leaving a shallow cut, as they fell away from each other.

The lightning bolt missed them both.

Lily didn't flee. She grabbed her dagger from where it had fallen next to her and lunged once more for Winter.

The next bolt struck Lily square in the chest. She fell backwards and did not move.

Winter breathed deeply, tried to push herself up, then collapsed onto the cold, dark, gentle snow.

/-/

"Is that a body?"

Hawkwood rushed forwards to inspect the figure half-buried in the snow and brushed some away. He didn't recognise her face, and when he checked for a pulse, he found none. Splotches of red could be seen in the snow, leading towards the house's open green door. "It is," he said.

"One of yours?" Jaune asked. Nora was already unfolding her hammer.

Hawkwood shook his head, then rose to his feet. "Solaire?" he called.

There was no response from the house.

"I'll go first," Jaune said, drawing his sword. Hawkwood followed suit. "Ren, Flynt, watch the entrance. Stick together."

They pushed inside. It didn't take them long to find Solaire. He was in the very next room, the study, his expression blank, staring at nothing. On the carpeted floor lay Winter, her eyes shut, a pillow propping up her head. Her uniform was dusted with snow. A rag—little more than a torn sheet—was tied around her midriff and stained with blood on the front. Another was tied loosely around her neck, stained from just below her left ear to the top of her clavicle.

"Solaire?"

"I didn't want to kill her."

* * *

 **When I introduced Lily I didn't intend to kill her so soon. But the more of her I wrote, the more it made sense that, in this situation, she would just keep pushing for the kill. She's got a lot of self-loathing, a lot of which is brought on by things we'll explore as the arc continues.**

 **Lily's death also (finally) gives me a chance to push Solaire a bit. I've mentioned before with Ana that it can be hard to bring up backstory for characters who've been around since so early on. I think I hit my stride with her last chapter. Hopefully this'll do the same for Solaire.**

 **This did, however, put a pause on bible school with Hawkwood. Definitely doing that next Atlas-chapter.**

* * *

 **I have a lot of free time on my hands right now. I don't know how long that'll last, but hey, I might as well write. For the time being, I'm aiming for 1-3 chapters a week. Next chapter we're in Menagerie to deal with the fallout of Ghira's death, which I'm sure will be lighthearted and fun for everybody involved.**


	53. Chapter 52: Broken

**So Atlas is a floating city, and that's fucking cool, and I wish I'd known in advance so I could incorporate it into this fic. The issue is that there was a whole WoR on Atlas where this should have come up, not to mention that Weiss was there for all of V4.**

 **The winged beringals look silly, not menacing.**

 **Still, overall V6 was excellent. It's just a shame that it highlights the weaknesses of the previous volumes.**

* * *

"Welcome back."

Ilia groaned and pushed herself upright. Yuma lay still on the ground close by. Artorias leaned against the wall across the alley, while his partner—Ana, she recalled—paced near the alley's entrance. She glanced back when Artorias spoke.

"We tried to wake you sooner, but you were out pretty cold. How're you feeling?"

Ilia could tell as much. Her back hurt and her head pounded. "Not great," she said.

"Sorry to hear that." He fished a scroll out of his pocket. "I'm either going to need you to tell us everything you know about Adam and the Albain's plans, or just give us the password to your scroll. Preferably both, because—let's be real—I'm not just going to take you at face value."

Ilia made to stand. He levelled her own weapon at her, and Ana toyed with a burn dust crystal.

Ilia stayed put.

"And if I don't cooperate?"

"How old are you, Ilia?"

She frowned, confused. "I turned eighteen in fall."

"Well, first of all, congratulations. Secondly, I owe Ana some lien, because I bet her you'd be at least nineteen. Thirdly, it's one thing to smack you three ways to Sunday when you attacked first, but I'd prefer _not_ to resort to—let's call it, say… torture—with a kid whose aura is down. That's just mean."

"Ethically questionable," Ana corrected.

"Mean."

"I'm not a kid," Ilia said. "I can't be that much younger than you."

"Actually, I'm turning twenty-one in two weeks. Thanks for asking, by the way. Anyway, I thought I'd go down the 'positive reinforcement' route. If you tell us what we want to know, I'll buy you a drink sometime. Celebrate your eighteenth."

"It was three months ago."

"Yeah, but eighteen's a big milestone, and I really doubt you celebrated properly with the White Fang, of all people. They don't seem like the type to party."

Ilia shrugged. He'd guessed right. Trifa had given her a card with twenty lien. That was all she'd received.

"And if you don't tell us… you know what? I guess I _will_ just break your fingers."

Ilia peered at them. Artorias seemed nonchalant, unbothered, but Ana was clearly uncomfortable with the idea.

It was a ruse.

"You don't have what it takes," Ilia said. She'd done her fair share of interrogations, and some of them had gotten physical. It got results, but it wasn't an easy thing to do. They weighed on her. He wouldn't have the guts.

Artorias kicked off from the wall. Ana averted her eyes. "Are you really going to test me?" he asked, stepping closer.

Ilia's gaze was defiant.

Before she could react, his knee met the side of her face. She fell, sideways and reached out to steady herself, and his boot came down on her left hand with a sickening _crunch._

"Fuck!"

"Look, Ilia, I gave you an option. Hell, I'm still down to buy you that drink, if you like."

"What is wrong with you?" Ilia gasped, clutching her hand.

"Don't act high and mighty with me, Ilia, the people you work with unleashed Grimm on unarmed civilians at Amity. This is nothing next to that."

She backed away, glaring up at him despite her watering eyes. "Everyone starts somewhere," she growled.

"Are you really going to provoke him again?" Ana asked. "I really don't want to have your other hand on my conscience."

"Oh, no, I'd go for a leg next time."

"I haven't spoken to Adam for almost a year," Ilia said, wincing as her hand shifted. "He gives his orders to the Albains. They had me watching the Belladonnas for about a year before you showed up. They switched me out for Trifa to lure you here."

"What intel were you gathering on the Belladonnas?"

"Guard shifts, meeting times, correspondence to or from the kingdoms… and, more recently, whether Blake returned. The password is one-three-one-two. You can check it if you want, my reports are all on there."

"Why Blake? Why is she important to them?" Artorias asked.

"She's important to Adam."

Artorias waved a dismissive hand, then unlocked her scroll.

"What's their next move?" Ana asked.

"I don't know." Artorias glanced up, an eyebrow raised, and Ilia cursed and pressed her back against a building. "I don't know!" she repeated. "They don't trust me. Not completely."

"The Belladonna estate." Yuma pushed himself upright groggily.

"What?"

"Adam sent orders. They're attacking the Belladonnas."

Ilia's eyes were wide with horror. "Yuma?"

"When?" Ana's voice was low and urgent.

Yuma chuckled, though it soon turned into a cough. "Tonight."

/-/

"You can heal her, right?" Flynt asked. "With your semblance?"

Hawkwood shrugged.

"What's your semblance?" Jaune asked.

"I can read the auras of others, and transfer the energy of my aura to people I touch." He held his hand over Winter's forehead for a moment, then withdrew it. "But I shouldn't."

"Why not?" Nora asked.

"It's like a floodgate. If I start, I can't stop until either her aura is at maximum capacity or my own aura is completely drained. The only time it's stopped prematurely…" He trailed off, shaking his head.

"I think you should do it," Nora said. "She looks like she needs it."

Jaune shook his head. "No, I see where you're going. Even with her aura at capacity, a wound like that would take days to heal. But that'd leave you without aura. We'd be down two rather than one."

Hawkwood nodded. "I don't think we have anything to worry about from the populace—at least until the blizzard clears."

"Wouldn't the Legion start sending search parties out soon?" Jaune asked. "We can't stay here."

"She's stable, for now, and it's warm in here. If we move her through the cold, she could get worse," Hawkwood said. "Solaire and Winter have fought them before. Very few are well-trained, but Farron is a skilled huntress."

"Then we should be able to defend this place, at least against the early search parties. How many do they have?" Jaune asked.

"Hard to say for sure. Our lowest estimate was a hundred. I reckon we've got two days here before we ought to move on."

"Where, though?" Flynt asked.

"I don't know. With any luck, Specialist Schnee'll be awake by then."

"I don't think we can risk waiting two days," Jaune said. "Farron never said how long she'd wait for Winter to show up, but they're planning something in the siege tunnels. We can't afford to sit around and wait."

"So you mentioned. Where's the map?"

"Ren had it," Nora said. "He said he was going to check on your partner."

Hawkwood cursed. "Solaire. I almost forgot." He sighed. "I should talk to him."

He turned to leave. Flynt raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure you're the pillar of support he needs?" he asked.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Hawkwood said.

"Just because you're partners doesn't mean—"

"You shut your mouth, Coal, or I'll—"

"Alright, alright, shut it!" Jaune said. " _I'll_ talk to him. Nora, Flynt, see if you can find something to board up that front window. Hawkwood, stay with Winter. If she gets worse—"

"I know. Semblance. I know."

/-/

In the end, all Artorias and Quelana had been able to do to restrain Ilia and Yuma had been to call the police. They'd have knocked them out again too, to make sure they didn't run, but Ana had rightfully voiced the concern that they may have already had concussions. To knock them out again would risk a more permanent injury.

It was almost a guarantee they'd be long gone by the time the police arrived, but at the very least they would be fugitives now, limiting their movements.

Artorias and Ana had more urgent matters to attend to.

They rode through the night. The path through the tropical 'green belt' ringing Menagerie's coast skirted along the desert, and they heard the occasional cackling of Howlers in the distance. But any Grimm aware of their passing were too slow to catch them.

Kuo Kuana came into view as they crested a hill. To the east, the sky was turning pink and purple and orange. Dawn was coming.

The bike would have been little use in the streets of Kuo Kuana anyway—often windy, sometimes narrow, and never free of pedestrians by day. The dealership from which they'd rented it was not yet open, but they left it outside with a wad of lien and ran for the Belladonna's house, excusing themselves as they barrelled through the town's early risers.

The door to the Belladonna's house was ajar, and many of the windows had been shattered, scattering shards of glass everywhere. The place was unguarded, and they entered loudly, not caring who heard them.

"Ghira? Kali?" Artorias called. No response. In some rooms they found the bodies of guards, in others bodies in White Fang uniform. Saber Rodentia was there, in the tea room where he'd told Mrs Belladonna about Blake's life at Beacon; Sean, Quelana's old neighbour, was in the meeting room, a room full of plant-life but where otherwise there was nothing but death. In one of the halls they found Trifa, whom they'd handed into Ghira's custody—claw marks ran across her chest, and there was a gunshot wound just below her right knee. Neither should have been lethal wounds, but she'd been left to bleed out. Near the back door, there was blood everywhere, mostly-dried by now, splatters of it on the walls and thick drops leading out the door, where they abruptly stopped.

They found Ghira dead on the floor of his study. Of Kali, they'd found no sign.

"Shit." Artorias leaned against the back of the couch and rubbed his eyes. It had been a long night.

"No time to rest," Ana said. "We need to find Kali."

"She's not here."

"Then we look for her. Do you have her number?"

Artorias shook his head. "We need to be out of here before somebody else comes and discovers the bodies. The Albains have already targeted us—we can't afford to be slowed down by questions, and they might even try to frame us."

Ana nodded. "We'll slip out the back, then. I doubt Kali's left Kuo Kuana—if the White Fang attack her in broad daylight, they'd ruin their image. We'll circle around back to my place, take an hour's rest each—two maximum, then head out to look for her before nightfall."

/-/

Solaire had moved upstairs since everybody else had arrived, and was now sat inside Lily's bedroom. Ren was just leaving when Jaune came up.

"How is he?" Jaune asked quietly.

"Shaken. I didn't want to push him, but I think my semblance helped calm him a little."

Jaune nodded. "Hawkwood wants to see the maps of the siege tunnels. He's with Winter."

"Alright." Ren made to step past and head down the stairs, but Jaune held him lightly by the arm.

"Hey," Jaune said. "You know that if you're ever… shaken, I guess… you can talk to me, right? You know we're here for each other?"

Ren nodded. "Of course. Is everything alright?"

"Yeah. Yeah. I just… it's something Flynt said. I just wanted to make sure you knew."

"I appreciate it."

Jaune let go and watched his teammate head downstairs.

He sighed and turned towards Solaire.

Solaire was fiddling with a crystal that hung from a piece of twine around his neck. It looked like dust, drained of energy. His eyes were fixed on a point on the wall, unmoving, unblinking.

Jaune knocked lightly on the door and stepped in. "Hey," he said, rather uselessly.

Solaire nodded listlessly.

Jaune sat next to him. "What's that?" he asked. "Dust?"

"Soapstone. I… I've had more and more reason to use it these past few months."

Jaune nodded, not really understanding. "Look, I can't pretend to know what you're going through. It can't be easy to take a life."

"It isn't," Solaire agreed. "It's weird. I know she has no living family. She seemed… scared of her old leader. I don't know if anyone will miss her. That should make it easy, right?"

"I think it's better that it doesn't."

"Small comfort."

"I guess."

Solaire sighed. "I feel like I should cry for her. That _someone_ should cry for her. But I can't." He shook his head. "I knew her before all this. Sort of. I've wanted to be a huntsman for as long as I can remember. Managed to nab a job as civilian staff at the academy when I was twelve. Janitorial stuff."

"That young?"

"I'm a child of the state. They're always looking for ways to make us pay back our 'debt'."

"Did it help you become a huntsman?"

He shrugged. "Maybe. They weren't going to let some kid into the lessons, that's for sure. But some of the teams… adopted me, I guess is the right word. I picked up a few tricks. Enough to pass initiation, when I was old enough."

"Lily's team?"

He shook his head. "No. No, I don't think I'd have been able to… to…" he trailed off, his eyes shut, his fist clenched around the soapstone.

Jaune sighed. "I'm sure someone will miss her."

"I don't know if that's better or worse," Solaire said. "I feel like someone should mourn her, but that I don't have the right. But, if anybody mourns her, it means that _I_ took her from them."

"People would have mourned Winter."

"I know. Maybe that made it easier. It was still the hardest thing I've ever done."

"I can only imagine, and I'd rather not," Jaune said. "Look, we need to decide on our next move. I won't ask you to fight if you're not ready, but we could use your input. Hawkwood says you've fought these guys before."

Solaire nodded. "I'll be down in a minute. I just... give me a little more time?"

"Of course." Jaune stood and made to leave.

Solaire called out as he passed through the doorway. "Hey. Your name's Jaune, right?"

Jaune turned back, a half-smile on his face. "Yeah."

"Thanks, Jaune."

/-/

"I'll take first watch." Artorias stepped into the house and stretched, yawning. "I'll wake you in an hour."

Ana groaned. "It's going to be so hard to wake up."

"It's better than nothing." If they fell asleep, it'd be hard to get moving again, but if they didn't sleep at all, they'd start to get sloppy. They'd miss little (or big) details, they'd slow down in battle, and eventually, they'd collapse from exhaustion. Even an hour's sleep at a time would help with that.

They'd miss little (or, as it turned out, very big) details, like, for example, the bloody handprint on the open windowsill, and the thin trail of blood that led from the kitchen, down the hall, and into Quelana's room.

Artorias did a doubletake.

"Ana!" He followed her down the hall as she opened the bedroom door to see Kali Belladonna, slumped face-up on the bed. She was unconscious, pale, and dirty. Her breathing was shallow, and a scrap torn from her dress covered her chest. It—and the bed beneath her—were soaked with blood.

They blinked, confused, as the image took a moment to process in their minds, then jumped into action.

Ana moved closer, lifting the dressing to check the wound. "Gunshot," she said. "Lucky it missed the heart."

"Cleaned?"

"Poorly." She held a hand to Kali's forehead. "She's got a fever. It's infected."

Artorias swore. "Do we have any alcohol?"

"You did the grocery shopping!"

Artorias pursed his lips. He'd not bought anything they could use to sterilise such a wound. He tore a scrap from his own cloak and passed it to Ana to redress the wound.

"She's lost a lot of blood. It won't help much."

He swore again, then dashed down the hall, flipping open the pouch he'd left on the kitchen counter and grabbing some freeze dust to keep the fever down. He ran back and gave the dust to Ana.

"How's her aura?" he asked.

"Locked."

"What?"

"It's locked."

"Can you unlock it?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I… I tried once. It didn't work."

"Then I'll do it."

"Do you know what you're doing?"

"Vaguely."

He put his hands on her forehead and closed his eyes. His aura had been unlocked by his father before he could remember, but he'd seen Winter activate an aura to stop someone from bleeding out, once. He echoed her words:

"For it is in our burdens that we find our freedom. Through this, we become a paragon of duty and justice to protect all. Infinite in potential and unbound by the past, I release your soul, and by my service, bind thee."

He opened his eyes.

Nothing had changed. When Winter had done it, it had left her exhausted. Perhaps he was too drained already to do it. Perhaps he didn't have it in him. Kali's skin felt burning hot.

"I don't think there's anything we can do," Ana said quietly.

He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes again, reaching deeper this time, drawing up every dreg of his aura.

He hadn't slept for twenty-six hours, and for a moment he thought himself delusional. In his mind's eye, he saw the sands of Vacuo. Gilderoy stood before him, his arms crossed, a scowl marring his features.

 _"Are you really going to buy her a drink?"_ he asked.

Of all the many, _many_ things Gilderoy could have said, Artorias hadn't expected that.

"What am I supposed to do?" Artorias asked. "I broke her hand. It's the least I could do."

 _"Everything is about you, isn't it? This isn't about showing her kindness. You just want to assuage your guilt, because you broke her hand and you feel bad about it."_

"First of all, she's eighteen, so, you know, she's basically a kid. Of course I'd feel bad about that," Artorias said.

 _"She's not a kid, and you know it. She's the same age as Jaune, Weiss, Yang—"_

"Shush. Secondly…" Artorias trailed off.

 _"Secondly?"_

"I thought if I said it, it'd prompt me to come up with a good point, but I've got nothing."

 _"Never a dull moment with you, is there?"_

"Never," Artorias agreed.

Gilderoy shook his head, then turned to leave, disappearing behind the dunes.

Artorias reached out for his partner, and saw that his right hand was on fire. With a surprised yelp, he shook it, trying to extinguish the flames.

His copper signet ring slipped from his finger. Fire spread from the band outwards, coating the desert with a sheet of flame. But within the ring, all was dark. All was quiet. Empty.

Terrifying.

Artorias opened his eyes, breathed deeply, and spoke.

"For it is in falsehood that we present ourselves. Through this, we become an embodiment of joy and laughter to inspire all. Infinite in sorrow but masked by will, I condemn your soul, but by my smile uplift thee."

Kali's aura surged.

* * *

 **I'm sure every writer sees in their most bathos-spouting angst-ridden creation a truly deep character.**

 **I'd like to think I've done it right with Artorias.**

 **From his smallest vices (mild gambling) to his dumb jokes to his constant search for adventure to his 'rampant alcoholism' (as Glynda put it) to his efforts to make friends with almost everybody he meets, regardless of whether or not he** _ **should**_ **befriend them (see again: Glynda, but also Neo, Roman, and now Ilia), Artorias is always trying to fill a hole inside of himself.**

 **You see, Artorias is broken. And, subconsciously, he sees this as permission to break others. He threatens to break Junior's arms for a scrap of intel, he** _ **actually**_ **breaks Ilia's hand, he crushes Smough's body and dreams both for what he did to Quelaan, he kills his own father in a fit of anger. And then he steps back to say, "I meant to do that. I was in control," because he can buy Ilia a drink and he could, if he so chose, reconcile with Smough, but he can never take back a killing blow. The best he can do is tell himself that it was what he wanted all along.**

 **Artorias has been broken since before the fic began, and he desperately tries to tell himself he is whole. This is the first time he's been forced to confront himself.**

 **Knight Artorias, the hero with "nary a murmur of Dark," as Elizabeth put it, has never existed.**

 **This story has always been about the Abysswalker.**


	54. Chapter 53: Loyalty

**In response to the guest reviewer who dropped a question (hi there!):**

 **Everyone's PC is different, from gender and appearance to the way they fight to the endings they choose and why, and writing my PC as a protagonist (and this is the role they'd _have_ to take, as I'll get to later) might make them completely unrecognisable to the PCs y'all imagine. A PC in **_**Souls**_ **isn't a character, they're a vessel through which the player views and interacts with the world.**

 **Because personality is not integral to the PC but rather imposed upon them (or not, for the less role-playing-inclined) by the player, the most defining aspect of the PCs is the adventures they** _ **must**_ **undertake regardless of who is playing them. Because these adventures are so grand in scale, they don't work for minor characters, but, obviously, we've already got a huge line-up of leading characters.**

 **Instead, the Chosen Undead/Bearer of the Curse/Ashen One are the heroes of myths and legends from the distant past. But those myths and legends aren't entirely accurate to the true events. After all, Sulyvahn once said of Ozpin, "The King of Words became the King of Everything because writing history and making history are the breadth of a page apart."**

 **I might be touching a little more on these myths when we get back to Patches.**

* * *

"Hey. Wake up."

Artorias' eyes shot open, and his hand reached out for Quelana's wrist as she gently nudged him. She paused, an eyebrow raised.

"Are you…" she trailed off as she stifled a yawn. "Are you alright?" she asked.

"How long have I been out?"

"Six hours. I'd have given you more, but I can barely stay awake."

Artorias blinked, then realised he was still gripping Ana's wrist. He let go with a muttered, "Sorry," and pushed himself upright.

After activating Kali's aura, he'd collapsed on the spot. Ana must have taken his armour off and moved him to the next room. A little self-consciously, he crossed his arms to cover his chest, despite still wearing his undershirt.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

He stretched his arms, then rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "How's Kali?"

Ana sighed. "Alive. The wound's healing quickly, and her aura should help fight the fever. She should be fine in a few days."

"Has she woken up at all?"

"A few times, but not for long."

Artorias' eyes turned to the window. It was mid-afternoon, and quite warm for the season. The sound of business down at the docks floated up to the house.

"Artorias, if you need to talk—"

"Don't you need sleep?"

"I think I can last a little longer." Her yawn betrayed her, but she soldiered on, sitting on the bottom bunk across from him. "I _was_ there when you unlocked her aura, you know. Those were not the words of someone emotionally stable."

Artorias squeezed his eyes shut. "Have you ever wanted to be somebody else?"

Quelana frowned in thought, then shook her head. "I can't say I ever have."

"I envy that," he said. "It comes and goes. It's usually fine. Just a little… whisper, I guess, in my head. But then I saw this _emptiness_ inside myself…" He shook his head. "I talked to June about it before we left, actually."

"June?"

Artorias pursed his lips. Quelana didn't know about immortality or reincarnation. He sighed. "She told me there was no escape from being Artorias Nym. That hurt."

"Ignore her. What does she know about being you?" Ana asked.

It hurt because June quite literally had experienced being a different person. There was no cure for being himself. No known cure, at any rate.

He wondered, if Ozpin had asked it of him, whether he'd have agreed to be the candidate for the aura transfer. Not that he was eligible for the Fall Maiden's powers, but maybe it would have somehow fixed him.

He _definitely_ would have agreed, he realised.

"Well, who do you want to be?" Ana asked.

"I don't know. Someone happy."

"When was the last time you were happy?"

He cast his mind backwards. Was it in Vale? Earning that rare grin from Winter, or sniggering at one of Glynda's snide barbs? Was it the night out with his friends, with Yang and Weiss and Sun and… Mercury?

Well, certainly not Mercury. Not now.

All had been fleeting. A smile to stave off the emptiness for another minute.

He searched further backwards through his memory: to the early days in Vale, to meeting new people before anybody had known things were going to hell and that not everyone would live through it. Further back, to Shade, to hot classrooms and hours spent teasing Ciaran, the weight of a wooden dowel in his hands as Gough had tried (and failed) to teach him how to whittle.

All distractions.

And then he remembered a lazy afternoon in Izalith, on the front steps of Quelana's home.

It had been in the early spring, and still quite cold. Ana had fallen asleep on his shoulder, his arm wrapped around her. The twins had received their acceptance letters from Shade that day, and Quelaan had dragged Quelaag out to celebrate gods-knew-where in town. Probably a bar. Ana had always blamed him for being a bad influence on them.

The sun had been sinking towards the horizon, sending shadows sprawling across the dunes. The forest, reaching towards them from the northern horizon, glowed gold and green in the sunset, the sky deep blue and purple. Wispy clouds had stretched ghost-like red and ruddy orange fingers across the sky.

Everything had been quiet.

There had been nothing to distract him.

And he had been happy.

That had been almost a year ago now.

Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes, and he stood and began to pace, keeping his gaze averted.

"Artorias?"

"I'm alright," he said. "Just, uh…" He wiped at his face with the back of his hand. "Baggage, I guess. Ha."

He felt a hand on his shoulder from behind. Ana gently turned him towards her.

"You know," she said, "this might be the first time I've seen you cry."

The tears began to flow and would not stop. He held her close and buried his face in her hair.

"I don't understand," he sobbed. "What's wrong with me?"

/-/

"The Book of Architects, the first book of the gospel, speaks of the early days of humanity, of a time before the Grimm. Great kingdoms were built, and men worshipped the world itself: the sky and the trees and the mountains and the sand. In those days, there was born a man named Aldrich, who amassed power—and I quote—'by consuming his fellow man'," Hawkwood explained.

"And how literally should we be interpreting this gospel?" Nora asked. "Say, if I eat enough, can I too become all-powerful? And I would I _have_ to be eating people, specifically?"

"Some believe Aldrich possessed a semblance allowing him to absorb the auras of others. Others _do_ take it literally, though nobody's been able to replicate his feat by eating people, so there's not much weight there."

"Except for the weight they put on, right?"

"Nora," Ren said sharply.

"Okay, I'll be quiet."

"Anyway, those who feared Aldrich's power bound him in the Deep—the afterlife—and set dark, evil things to gnaw on his soul. It had the unfortunate side effect of ruining the afterlife for the rest of us too. Our souls are chewed up and spat back out as Grimm." He shrugged. "The gospel claims that we are all doomed, and the only way to be saved is to show our faith in Aldrich, that he may consume our souls whole when we die and protect us with his body."

"Who _wants_ to believe that?" Jaune asked.

"It's not a matter of want. Some are raised on it. Some feel they deserve it."

"I still don't understand what the Legion wants from this," Ren said.

"I'm getting there. Firmaments, the last book, says that the day of reckoning will come when Aldrich grows strong enough from consuming our souls to return to Remnant. The boundary between the Deep and our world will crumble, and it is our duty to destroy the evil that will be unleashed and make the afterlife peaceful once more.

"In the days before the Great War, there was an order of—well, 'knights' is a strong word, but they were officially a knightly order—called the Outriders. They believed that if the blood of a non-believer was drunk, Aldrich would still be able to consume their souls in the afterlife. The Outriders often travelled in groups, hid their faces, and wore red cloaks, slaughtering all the faithless in their path."

"A cloak like yours?"

Hawkwood gritted his teeth. "I… may have idolised them, when I was still faithful. It was not their sole goal to hasten Aldrich's return. They believed themselves the first line of defence for the day the Deep spilled into Remnant, not to mention that they were some of the most brutally efficient Grimm-hunters of their day. I saw that, at the very least, as noble. I'd like to think I've made the symbol my own since then."

"And you think the Legion is a new form of the Outriders?"

"A revival, certainly. I wouldn't yet rule out the possibility that they are a tool for Farron to gain power, whether to further the faith's purposes of her own. But right now they seem to be sticking to tradition."

"Wanton slaughter?"

"Ah, but it's not wanton," Hawkwood said. "They've burned a lot, but they've only targeted the faithful before now. They may have viewed Royce as an ineffective leader, or even a heretic, but he's no unbeliever."

"I see." Jaune stood and examined the maps. "Look at their targets. Aside from places of religious significance, it's all garrison barracks, law enforcement, CCT relays, the airport. They've isolated Irithyll and crippled its defences. Hell, we had to walk half an hour from our landing point to get here."

"And now their targets are Winter, the specialist assigned to take them down, and… that huntsman," Solaire said.

"What about him?" Nora asked.

Hawkwood and Solaire shared a glance. They'd both recognised Gilderoy Ornstein's bident.

But it was impossible. Ornstein was dead.

"He killed the people making the Legion's weapons," Hawkwood explained. "Farron framed the order on Winter and the huntsman as retaliation for this, but _we_ didn't actually do anything to them there. It was all the huntsman."

"It's not retaliation," Jaune realised. "It's _preparation_. They're removing opposition so that by the time people are really panicking, there's nobody to save them."

"Then we can't let them know Winter's injured," Ren said, "or they might move ahead sooner. And we need to make ourselves as big a threat to them as possible."

"There's an easy way to do that," Flynt said. "We poke around this thing in the siege tunnels."

"We can't bank on it. It's outside the walls. For all we know, it's just an escape route in case the military rolls in," Jaune said.

"What about this golden huntsman?" Nora asked. "If we can find him, he might help us."

Hawkwood shook his head. "We don't know where he is."

"We could just attack them head-on," Jaune suggested.

He got a few odd looks and raised eyebrows. "Hear me out," he continued. "You estimated a hundred of them, right? Poorly trained?"

"Low estimate," Hawkwood corrected.

"There are six of us here, all huntsmen-in-training. Getting through _initiation_ at an academy is a feat enough. If we take them by surprise, then Farron's the only real threat."

"She's the only huntress that we are _aware_ of. And I wouldn't discount the possibility she could wipe the floor with us by herself. There's a stark difference between students and huntresses proper."

"We don't need to take her out immediately," Flynt said. "All we need to do is break into the police compound, get to the backup relay, and send word to the General that the situation's gotten out of control, and that the Schnee is injured. He'll send us some backup."

"One group can do that while the other investigates the siege tunnels," Jaune suggested, "while one person stays behind to watch over Winter."

"Me, I presume," Hawkwood said.

"It has to be you," Jaune agreed. Winter's aura was recovering slowly; his semblance would be invaluable if her condition worsened. Hawkwood nodded in acceptance.

Jaune glanced around the room, biting his lip. Solaire was keeping himself together—for now—but there was no telling if he'd freak out again in combat. It was so soon after Lily's death, after all. The police compound was definitely guarded, whereas the siege tunnels only held the possibility. Best to send Solaire down there, with Ren—

"I'll go into the tunnels," Flynt volunteered. "My trumpet's not much use in the storm, but in an enclosed tunnel? Should be sweet."

He had a point. But Jaune knew the greater numbers should go to the compound, with the increased risk of combat, and it was imperative that Ren and Solaire go together. If he panicked, Ren's semblance would help keep him calm. "Nora, you go with Flynt," he directed. "Solaire, Ren and I will head for the backup relay—if you're up for that, Solaire."

He breathed deeply and nodded. "I can handle it," he said.

"Good." Jaune glanced at his scroll. It was late in the evening. The darkness would provide cover, but the cold could very well ruin them. "We'll go in the morning, then," he said. "Get as much rest as you can. And stay warm."

/-/

Kali had moved—or had been moved—to the other side of the bed so she wasn't lying in her own blood. There was a half-empty glass of water on the bedside table. The scraps of cloth that had bound the wound earlier had been carelessly discarded in the corner; Ana had found a clean bandage to use instead.

Artorias refilled the glass and returned it to its spot, then sat next to the bed. His eyes hurt, and he wasn't sure if it was from the crying or that he was still exhausted or both. But Quelana had been going on over thirty hours without sleep, and now she was snoring in the other room. Somebody had to keep watch, especially with the sun now below the horizon. If Corsac and Fennec were going to make a move, it would be at night.

He held his face in his hands. It was hard to pin down exactly how he felt now. Tired, mostly. Always tired. Uneasy, discontent, broken.

But they were muted feelings now. Dulled, hiding away in that emptiness he'd seen.

It was better to feel nothing than to be miserable.

He sighed, stood, and made his way to the kitchen sink to splash water on his face. It made him feel a little more awake, a little more aware.

Discarded on the couch, a scroll began to buzz.

Artorias picked it up. The number was unknown. The scroll was Ilia's. He answered it.

"Who is this?"

 _"Nym,"_ Ilia greeted curtly. _"I'd hoped you'd kept my belongings. I trust you haven't scrapped my weapon for parts?"_

Artorias rubbed the bridge of his nose, then put the scroll on speaker and placed it on the kitchen countertop to pour himself a glass of water. "If you're wanting to take me up on that drink, now's a really bad time, Ilia."

 _"Is Kali alive?"_ she asked.

"Why should I tell you?"

 _"They're going to blame Ghira's death on Quelana, claim it as racially motivated. She'd pass for human in a mugshot, after all, and that's all they need."_

Artorias gritted his teeth. _Now_ he felt something: anger.

 _"That's going to lead to Menagerie turning to the White Fang protection. But Adam also wants word of their death to get out to the kingdoms. He thinks it'll lure Blake here, and then the Albains will bring her to him."_

"Get to the point."

 _"I don't want him to hurt Blake, Nym. Do I have to spell it out?"_

"You very much do."

 _"I didn't join the White Fang to hurt my friends. We're just fighting for a better world."_

"Aren't we all." Artorias pursed his lips. "Kali is alive."

He heard a sigh of relief. _"Good. I'll be there tomorrow—I can help you all get out of Menagerie."_

"Is that your plan? Run?"

 _"I won't be going with you; I won't abandon the cause. But it's too dangerous for her here now. Our word against the Albain's won't hold any sway, but Kali's? People will listen to her. Corsac and Fennec will want her silenced."_

"Or we could just let Kali, you know, tell people what happened. Turn Menagerie against the White Fang. Seems a lot simpler."

 _"No. The White Fang is necessary, Nym. You may not like it, but it's the truth. Don't mistake this for an alliance; I'm only giving you two an out so Kali has somebody protecting her."_

Nevermind the fact that the Albains were manufacturing the situation so that the Fang _appeared_ necessary. Artorias stayed silent. He doubted he'd be able to sway her on that argument.

"I've got a simpler solution," said a voice from the hallway. Artorias looked up. Kali was pale, leaning against the wall for balance, but she was standing. "Tell us where Corsac and Fennec are right now, and Mr Nym and Mrs Acribus can take them down."

 _"Mrs Belladonna?"_

"Ilia." Kali took a shaky step forwards. Artorias moved to help her to the couch. "And if you could get me some more water, Mr Nym," she said, presenting her empty glass.

"Sure. Of course."

 _"Mrs B, I can't. The White Fang—"_

"Ilia, if you truly still care for me—or for Blake—please. They murdered my husband. We cannot let this stand."

Ilia was silent for a long while. Artorias wondered if she would speak at all, or if she would just hang up.

 _"Very well_ , _"_ she said at last.

* * *

 **Ninja-Edit: There used to be a long-ass AN here, but t** **his was an emotionally draining chapter to write, and the AN that followed was... also emotionally draining. So I deleted it.**

 **I guess this is free space now, huh.**


	55. Chapter 54: Heat and Cold

**It occurs to me that I've never really asked: what's the draw of this story for y'all? What made you start reading? What makes you keep coming back?**

 **Is it the worldbuilding? Is it dynamics between the characters, the way the characters are translated from the source material, or a specific character's arc/backstory/characterisation? Is it the humour? Is it just a sunk cost fallacy? Do you find the plot particularly compelling? Which arc do you find the most entertaining? Which arc intrigues you the most?**

* * *

Jaune, Ren, and Solaire ducked into an alleyway, pressing themselves against the wall.

"Let them pass?" Solaire asked.

"We're here to present ourselves as a threat," Jaune said. "A few missing patrols would help with that."

"Even knocking them out would lead to death by hypothermia," Ren said.

He had a fair point. There was a lull in the blizzard, yes, but it still continued, the snowfall never-ending and relentless.

"Alright," Jaune said. "Let them pass."

Not long afterwards, four men in red cloaks passed down the main street. Jaune held his breath and, in his head, counted up the seconds for them to pass around the next corner.

"Come on." Jaune led the team out of the alley. "We're close."

/-/

Ilia had explained that she'd knocked Yuma out, allowing him to be incarcerated, and thus he'd not informed the Albains of their failure. Neither had she, though she'd not lied of their success either.

That, of course, meant that, unless Artorias and Quelana had been spotted by the White Fang, the Albains believed Artorias to be bound, gagged, and en route to Adam, and Quelana to be en route back to Kuo Kuana, where she was to be framed for Ghira's death.

Thus, their attention was on finding Kali.

There were few airships in Menagerie. Fewer still that could travel over long distances; even the south coast of Anima was almost out of range. But not quite.

The Albains didn't know that Kali was injured. They were clever, Ilia said, but also cowardly, and assumed much the same of everybody else. They'd expect Kali to try to flee Menagerie as quickly as possible.

And those airships were the quickest—and safest—way out.

If there were any place that Corsac and Fennec would be guarding personally, it would be the airships.

"Are you going to be ready?" Quelana asked quietly.

"Hmm?" Artorias pressed himself against a palm tree. The airfield was somewhat isolated, on the eastern edge of Kuo Kuana and a little inland. There was a road, but they'd decided to approach from the treeline.

He peered around the tree. The airfield certainly was guarded. The moonlight reflected off pale masks.

"Not to suggest anything, but eight hours ago you were a…"

"Mess?"

"Yeah."

Artorias narrowed his eyes. He counted six masks, possibly more on the other side of the field. Menagerie's CCT relay was on the northern end, and his attention was drawn by a light flickering off on the upper level.

A few seconds later, Corsac and Fennec Albain emerged from the relay's entrance.

He drew his sword. "Always fear the flame, Ana," he said.

"Hilarious, Arty," she said dryly. She pulled two dust crystals from her pouch. "You're sure you're alright?"

"The better question is: will _you_ be okay?"

She rolled her eyes, stepped out of the treeline, and crushed the crystals in her hands.

Her aura lit up brightly, like a signal flare, brilliantly warm hues of yellow, the colour of wattle flowers and sunlit sands.

But there was not yet any fire.

Heat rolled off her in waves, the air around her shimmering in the heat. The concrete beneath her feet cracked. Her hood flew backwards, and embers floated from her hair and her robes, wavering and flickering motes that danced in the air around her like fireflies. Artorias' skin felt dry.

"Boss!" someone yelled.

He stepped out after Quelana, his hand gripping the sword so hard the leather wrapping on the handle creaked.

/-/

"Reckon we can get over the wall?"

Jaune poked his head out from the doorway they'd hidden behind. Security cameras swept back and forth around the police department's perimeter. Better not to be spotted for as long as they could leave it, though at the very least the snow would obscure them—from a distance.

They had that sort of luck at the wall, though scaling it would be another matter entirely. It was worn smooth by the elements, and though the snow had piled high, it would not suffice. Not to mention that the metal spikes atop the walls tilted outwards ever so slightly to stop intruders.

 _How thoroughly… oppressive,_ Jaune thought.

The walls of the main police department building, however, were considerably less fortified, though they were taller. Windows on every level led into the building proper. Jaune could see bars on the windows of the ground floor, but the upper floors looked clear.

He motioned to Ren and Solaire to follow, and crept closer, dashing across the street once he was out of the cover of the building. He pressed himself against the wall beneath a window, deployed his shield, and raised it over his head. "Window," he said. "Solaire, you go first."

Solaire nodded, holding his dust-embroidered handkerchief tightly in his hand, backed away, then ran headlong at Jaune, jumping atop the shield. Jaune heaved, boosting Solaire up to crash through the window.

They heard startled yells—then a burst of light emanated from the window.

Ren went through next, rolling as he passed through the frame. A burst of gunfire echoed out onto the street.

Jaune rolled his shoulders, backed up, then ran at the wall, his fingers digging into the nooks and crannies of the well-worn bricks, his boots barely keeping purchase. Ren's hand reached down from the window, and Jaune grabbed onto it to pull him the rest of the way up.

/-/

"I hardly expected for you to turn _yourself_ in."

Gilderoy was silent. Doctor Watts had told him not to talk, and he had to obey that order. It was one of the standing orders, really. Avoid military. Don't speak. Make no contact with Ironwood or anyone in his employ. It had been hard to find a loophole.

But Watts had been distracted when giving his orders and had made an error: when Gilderoy had returned from the weapons factory, his new orders had not specified 'when' he should return again, nor the specifics of 'how' he was to carry out his task. "Rile them up a little," he'd said. "Come back when you're done."

And now here he was, on the top floor of the Irithyll Police Department, in an office that had once belonged to some police captain. His hands were shackled in front of him, and across from him sat Eliza Farron, her mask set aside. She was inspecting his bident, turning it over in her hands and running her gloved finger along its edge.

Leaning in the corner was the greatsword he'd stolen away beneath Watts' nose, the one that they'd taken with Vengarl: a bronze greatsword, intricately detailed on the crossguard.

Eliza's face was marred by three long, silvery scars that ran from just above her left temple all the way to her chin, though beyond that it was a rather fair face. Her eyes were the colour of the sky, and her dark, shaggy hair was swept back and tucked behind her ears.

It had taken some time for them to realise he was—effectively—mute, and he'd been provided with a small slate and a chunk of soapstone on the table for him to write.

He raised his hands, resting his left hand on his right so it wouldn't get in the way (though this new… suit seemed ambidextrous, he still preferred his right), and wrote: _Better than alternative._ He had to press down quite hard for the soapstone to imprint on the slate. Chalk would have been preferable.

"I'll take your word for it." Farron leaned back in her chair, put her legs up on the desk, leaned the bident against the wall then removed the glove on her right hand, using it to pick up a cup of tea. "I'd offer you some, but…"

Gilderoy wrote. _Not helmet. Artificial body._

"I know."

Gilderoy tilted his head.

"I'd recognise Doctor Polendina's work anywhere, Mr Ornstein. Oh, and the bident too—of course I know who you are. Don't look so… I was going to say shocked, but it's hard to read you." She took a sip, then grimaced. "Nothing stays warm for long here, does it? I assume you're acting under his orders too."

 _Why?_

"Well, he's hardly one to share his… more _impressive_ tech," Eliza explained.

Gilderoy tapped the slate, pointing to the most recent word. _Why?_

Eliza snorted. "Because he's a dick."

 _Not the question._

She narrowed her eyes. "Don't push your luck." She set the teacup down again and tugged her glove back on. "You took quite a risk turning yourself in. Did you know I'd understand you weren't in control?"

He shook his head.

"Then tell me why you came."

 _Can't run. Can't go back._ If he went back, Watts would give him more orders. He couldn't afford to lose these loopholes.

She sighed. "Tell me why you're here. I won't ask again."

Ornstein made to write, but the slate was full. He tried to erase it, but his metal hands were ineffective. Eliza rolled her eyes and took the slate.

But she did not yet wipe it clean. She ran her finger through the soapstone, smearing it to form new words, and then turned it around to face him.

 _Believe you. Ears everywhere,_ she'd written.

Then she flipped it back around, wiped it clean with her sleeve, and passed it back to him.

He looked up at her, his optical receptors zooming in on her face. She gave away no hints.

Shaking his head, confused, Gilderoy decided that it was safest, for now, to continue the conversation as it had been going. _Looking for Winter,_ he wrote. That was the second loophole. He couldn't actively seek her out, but turning himself in could allow him to 'rile up' the Legion further—as per Watts' order—and, if Winter Schnee were captured by the same people…

Well, he'd be in business.

 _Escaping Watts,_ he added.

"Watts?"

 _Dr P dead. Arthur W in control._

Eliza sighed and ran her hands through her hair. Ornstein saw, as the hair atop her head flattened, her hands subtly raise for a moment, as if over a bump on her head. His optical receptors zoomed and refocused, and he noted two nubs on either side of her cranium, exactly where a faunus' ears might be.

"Let's get one thing straight," she said, reaching for the slate and writing on it. "We are not friends. We are not allies. Even if I knew where Winter was, I wouldn't tell you, much less let you go to her. I'm willing to humour you a little, but you are still my—our—prisoner."

She turned the slate around. _Help each other._ She scrubbed it off and passed the slate back.

 _How?_ Gilderoy wrote.

Her eyes widened, and she leaned forwards in her chair, resting her chin on her hand. It would have been a perfectly normal pose, had she not rushed into it, and were her fingers not tapping against the side of her face, right next to her eye.

A chill ran down Ornstein's spine. The fact that, technically, he did not have a spine, told him that something was very wrong.

She was telling him that they were being watched now too.

"So," Eliza asked, "what does Watts want with me?"

 _Provoke you. Distract Ironwood._

"Curious. And he got control over you before killing Geppetto, then?"

Gilderoy nodded. _How did you know Doctor P?_

"It's complicated. He saved my life long ago, and he held it over my head. Said he'd given us a great gift. That it was only fair he—" she cut herself off, gritting her teeth. "Not now," she muttered.

Gilderoy wrote a question mark on the slate.

Eliza stood, reaching for her mask. The door was flung open by a member of the Legion. "Sir," he said. "We've got company."

"Yes, yes, I know." She gestured to Gilderoy. "Take him to a cell. Is Winter with them?" she asked.

"We don't—"

"Never mind," she said. "They're heading for the relay. I'll cut them off." She unstrapped her gun from her hip and reached for the greatsword he'd brought. "I was in need of a new sword," she muttered. She offered him a nod in thanks, then ran at the window, crashing through it and spraying glass outwards into the snow to plummet seven stories to the ground below.

/-/

The very air around Quelana was supercharged with heat. The slightest motion on her part ignited a fire wherever she wished, and she shaped the flames to her will. The foolish soldier who tried to run at her with a sword was stopped in his tracks by a series of fiery ropes that grew in the air around him. He halted, standing stock-still, sweat forming on his brow, his skin going red, unable to move for fear of burning himself.

Artorias conked him on the head as he passed by, his attention focused on Corsac and Fennec. The two remained at range, raising their daggers, and unleashed a barrage of dust-based blasts: fire and wind.

Both dust types splashed harmlessly off Ana's aura, the condensed air igniting before it reached her.

The bigger risk, for now, were the White Fang soldiers moving to surround them from a safer distance, raising rifles. Ana's semblance provided no extra protection from those.

Well, unless she made it hot enough to melt the bullets. He didn't doubt that she could, though probably not over such a large area.

Artorias dashed past her, deploying his shield to block the initial barrage. His brow dripped with sweat from the immense heat.

"I've got it," Ana said, completely unphased. Her semblance left her entirely immune to the effects of high temperatures, as long as her aura remained intact. It enabled her to use techniques with burn dust that others could only dream of. She swept her hand outwards, conjuring lances of fire around her before sending them screaming away towards the White Fang. "Get the Albains," she said.

Artorias nodded and, now that the gunmen were occupied, turned, stowing his shield once more. Corsac was fiddling with his dagger—changing a dust cartridge, it seemed—while Fennec ran for an airship.

"Ana!" he called, pointing to it with his sword. Most of the gunmen had taken cover from her assault behind the shipping containers, and she'd been approaching their line, conjuring ropes of flame to tear their cover apart. But now she turned and reached out with her hand. Fire surged from her fingertips, melting a hole straight through the airship's hull and out the other side in an instant. Fennec skidded to a halt, eyes wide.

A bolt of blue energy streaked past Artorias, melting as it went to splash against Quelana's body, evaporating into steam mere seconds after. "Back away, brother!" Corsac yelled, charging another blast of dust.

"Keep them off me!" Ana yelled, backhanding a White Fang soldier who'd thought to run at her with a sword while she was distracted. The blow left a red knuckle-print on his cheek that likely wouldn't fade. She continued pursuing the ones with guns, who were backing further and further away now, almost to the treeline.

Artorias barrelled into Corsac, his first wide arc forcing Corsac to leap back, off balance, then shoulder checking him to the ground. Corsac rolled to his feet quickly, but Artorias hadn't planned to take the opportunity to strike, rather using it to position himself so that both brothers would be attacking from the same direction. A quick twist to the left sent Fennec's blast of wind dust spiralling past, and he turned the movement into another swipe, batting aside Corsac's wild jab.

One brother moved to the side, and the other vaulted over his back. Artorias leaned away, Fennec's dagger splitting the air where his face had been.

It was clear already that, alone, either of the Albains would have been no threat for a huntsman, but together they showed promise, making up for each other's failings. Neither fought with defence in mind—indeed, their weapons were so small and light that blocking or parrying were barely options, especially against a larger weapon—but together they were able to make up for it in the speed of their combined assault. Artorias backed away, sword flashing up and down, left and right, quick enough to parry but never enough to strike back himself.

He was pressured, but not to the point of panic.

Corsac and Fennec's tactics would be effective against people without huntsman training: people whose physical conditioning and aura control weren't quite up to par, people who couldn't draw out a fight for longer than a few seconds. But the more they threw themselves against him, the more they tired, especially with Ana's intense heat sapping their energy. Eventually, they would make a mistake.

When it came, it came with a certain detachment that surprised Artorias.

He'd expected to spot it and for his heart to sing, for the tide of battle to sweep him up in a dance of dust and steel, as it always did.

For the sweat and the blood and the pain to wash away his discontent. For it to distract him. To make him feel, for a moment, whole.

But all it came with was a strange detachment, as if he was merely observing someone else in his body.

As he backed away, leading the Albains around the airfield, his boot kicked against a discarded rifle. Corsac lunged, thinking it would throw Artorias' gait—instead, the wolf dove to the side, rolling as he hit the ground. The motion brought his sword arcing upwards to cut along Corsac's outstretched arm.

Aura spluttered, sparked—then gave out. The sword cut through flesh, scoring a deep wound just below Corsac's right elbow.

"Brother!" Fennec's blade drove for Artorias' chest while he was still finding his footing, and he took the full force of the blow on his breastplate, stumbling away a few steps. Fennec came at him relentlessly, but he was now alone, his brother nursing a wound, and it was a simple matter for Artorias to parry too wild a strike, twist, then jam his pommel into Fennec's chest, sending him stumbling backwards.

He stepped into Fennec's guard, ducked his flailing swipe, then spun, slamming his elbow into the side of Fennec's head.

The White Fang lieutenant dropped like a rock.

He turned his attention to Corsac—

Who had disappeared.

A weight crashed into him from the side, and he and Corsac rolled, eventually settling with the taller of the two brothers on top. Artorias, a little dazed, refocused his aura to stop the first downwards stab from piercing his throat. Cobalt aura sparked in protest.

Corsac's second attempt was halted by Artorias grabbing his wrists to keep the blade away from him, muscles screaming and straining. Blood from Corsac's wound dripped in his eye. Artorias grit his teeth, struggling to hold the blade's tip mere centimetres from his throat.

Corsac growled. The dust in the weapon began to prime, gathering around the point to deliver a blast of wind dust to Artorias at point-blank range.

 _I wonder if I'll die_ , he thought. The idea that he should have been more distressedat the prospect barely crossed his mind.

The air grew suddenly very cold.

A tendril of flame exploded into being, wrapping around Corsac's torso to pull him upwards. The dust blast went wide, and Corsac fell to the ground, his head cracking against the concrete at Ana's feet.

There was a whip in her hand that spat and crackled and glowed with power, carving a trench in the concrete where it rested against the ground. For a moment, she stood stock still, a scowl marking her face and her eyes narrowed, but then she looked away and let go of the whip, which scattered as embers in the breeze.

"I thought you said you'd be alright."

"I promised no such thing."

/-/

Jaune twisted, ducked, and shoved, sending the legionnaire into the path of Solaire's shieldbash. He tumbled to the bottom of the stairs, then did not move.

Jaune followed him down, stepping over his still body to the door that led to the back courtyard, and to the backup relay beyond. The doorknob was icy cold—and also locked.

"Can either of you pick a lock?"

Ren stepped forwards and shot it. The door swung inwards, spilling snow onto the floor.

"That works."

They stepped out. Across the courtyard lay the backup relay, the door ajar. Jaune led the way, trudging through the snow.

"Jaune!" Ren crashed into him from behind, throwing him to the ground. Where he'd stood, the Profaned Greatsword came plunging into the snow, the woman wielding it masked and wearing a red cloak.

She pulled the familiar blade loose with her left hand and adopted a wide, low stance. Her right hand was hidden beneath her cloak.

"Surrender," she said.

Jaune and Ren pulled each other up, drawing their weapons. "Where is Vengarl?" Jaune growled.

She cocked her head.

"Eliza Farron, I presume," Ren said. "That sword belongs to a friend of ours. What have you done with him?" Ren asked.

"Then you won't surrender?"

"Where is he?!" Jaune charged in, raising his sword.

Her right hand flickered out, revealing a revolver. She fired, once, at Jaune's feet, spraying a cloud of snow into his face. He faltered, just for a moment, and barely brought his sword down in time to parry her blow as she rushed towards him. He backpedalled, off-balance, his feet struggling to find purchase in the snow, as she attacked, sword flashing from this angle and that, her cloak billowing up to hide her movements until it was almost too late to defend himself.

But then came Ren from the side, heralded by a burst of gunfire. She was forced to let up, ducking beneath Ren's first swipe and giving Jaune a chance to recover his footing—but then, as she came back up, she brought her pommel screaming towards Jaune's chin.

He twisted to the side and swept Crocea Mors outwards, intending to score a long cut across her back, but kept close to him, wrapping her right arm around his left shoulder and rolling across him to switch their positions. Jaune suddenly found himself in the path of Ren's downwards cut.

Ren pulled the blow, and Farron continued the movement to throw Jaune bodily into the snow.

Jaune snarled and pushed himself back to his feet. Ren was struggling with Farron, managing to lock her sword between StormFlower's blades and wrenching it down and to the side, but catching a fist to the face for his troubles.

And Solaire…

The Atlesian remained near the door, leaning against the wall as if it was the only thing keeping him upright, his face pale and his eyes wide. One hand clutched his chest through his chainmail.

"Solaire!" Jaune called.

"I… I can't…"

Whatever he was saying was drowned out by five gunshots punching through the storm in quick succession.

Ren staggered backwards, his aura shuddering and flickering, just about doubled over in pain.

Jaune unhooked his sheath from his belt and ran over to him. Farron was content to wait, reloading her gun before and moving to stand between them and the relay.

"You alright?" Jaune asked.

Ren nodded, though he looked pale, and even now his aura was noticeably sparking. He wouldn't last much longer.

"I'll handle her," Jaune said quietly. "Slip past. Get to the relay."

Ren nodded and backed away.

Jaune turned, deploying his shield.

"You can still surrender," she said. Her mask was cold and still, betraying nothing.

"So can you." Jaune's bravado did not at all match how nervous he really felt.

"Hmm." She raised her gun and squeezed the trigger.

Jaune brought up his shield, counting the shots. One, two three—then she was on top of him, sword crashing down towards him. Backwards he went, shield raised, twisting and sidestepping and blocking and—rarely—jabbing in retaliation. Though he was on the back foot again, he was not caught off-guard, and as long as he fought defensively he'd be able to hold her off for a long, long time.

And, as he went, he kept counting bullets. The fourth and fifth came in quick succession, aimed for his thigh, when a powerful downwards strike had jarred his shield arm. The sixth was used to force him to raise his guard once more when a quick thrust cut into her aura, pinging off his shield.

Her gun empty, his shield collapsed into a sheath, and he went on the offensive.

She was nimble and quick, and covered as her right side was by her cloak it was difficult to see her exact movements, but now he was able to pressure her, sword-hand focused on breaking through her guard and off-hand batting aside her sword. She spun and twisted, wraithlike, few of his blows connecting but all forcing her backwards, leaping away then back in with a strike Jaune was forced to block, crossing sword and sheath both to catch the blow.

Their blades locked. Her right hand came up as well, shoving the barrel of her gun under his chin.

 _But it's empty,_ Jaune thought blankly.

She squeezed the trigger, and Jaune's head snapped backwards.

His aura had prevented the bullet from breaking the skin, but not from the _crack_ that left his ears ringing, nor the force of the shot that sent him sprawling in the snow, his grip on his weapons loosening.

"Solaire!" he roared.

She stepped over him and fired twice more into his torso, then, upon seeing that his aura remained intact, once more.

Jaune's aura broke. The bullet lodged in his breastplate. The impact punched the breath from his lungs.

"Jaune!"

With no small effort, he raised his head. Ren stood in the entrance to the relay.

"It's over, Farron," he said. "Ironwood is coming."

She removed her mask. "That's the least of your worries."

/-/

Nora had expected her footsteps to echo in the tunnels and was disappointed to find that they did not. The sound was rather muted, in fact.

Pursing her lips, she stomped her foot and listened closely. From down a tunnel to her left, she heard the sound bounce back—only once.

"Quiet," Flynt said, consulting the map. "It's this way." He gestured down the left-hand tunnel.

Flynt was not good company. That was not to say he was _bad_ company. But Nora needed somebody she could bounce off of. Like Ren. Sure, Ren was quiet, but the occasional "Hmm" or "I see" or "Oh really?" was all Nora could ask for.

But she gave Flynt the benefit of the doubt. He didn't seem to mind as long as she spoke low enough for her voice to not travel (though he never responded the way she wanted), and they were on a mission, after all. He was probably just focused.

Their journey took them from well-maintained passages of stone and the occasional wooden support to an older part of the tunnels, the walls sagging inwards in places and dirt spilling onto the path. On they went, Flynt checking the map where necessary, the tunnels growing more decrepit as they went. But the map held true.

And, when they reached their destination, they found the passage covered up by wooden planks.

"You can do the honours," Flynt said.

Nora reached for Magnhildr. From behind, she felt a light breeze, and glanced over her shoulder, confused.

"Did you feel that?" she asked.

Flynt nodded, reaching for his trumpet.

There was nowhere for the wind to have _gone_ —the passage had been boarded up quite thoroughly, leaving only little gaps through which they should have heard the wind whistling. In fact, they ought to have heard the wind in the tunnels anyway.

They stood still and silent for a time, waiting for anything more. But there _was_ no more.

"I don't like this," Flynt said. "Get that wall down. We need to wrap this up fast."

Nora hefted her hammer and, with a single downwards swing, destroyed the wall, sending splinters flying against their auras.

Beyond, the tunnels opened up into an underground lake that had long ago frozen over.

And, embedded within the ice, were Grimm. Countless Grimm—Deathstalkers, some as big as paladins; fish-like Grimm with hundreds of rows of teeth, agape forevermore; Grimm like rats, their ribcages angled out of their black skin and sharpened to deadly points; and even one, strange, vaguely-humanoid Grimm, its hand stretching towards the surface but unable to move, its three fingers ending in little claws, a bone plate on its chest split down the middle like a seam.

But, worse than all that, was the dark shape at the bottom of the lake.

Nora felt another gust of wind, a chill down her spine, and she shivered.

Far, far beneath her feet, a red eye opened, as wide across as she herself was tall. Then another. And another. Dozens of them, hundreds of them, cracking open all over the massive Grimm's body.

The ice shuddered.

* * *

 **A bit of an action-heavy chapter. Artorias' recent breakdown leads to a shift in his approach to battle. Farron's first appearance indicates that there's more to her than meets the eye. And a big Grimm next chapter.**


	56. Chapter 55: Things Betwixt

**Interesting to see two shout-outs for the Sulyvahn arc. It's been one of my favourites to write too, though certainly among the most challenging.**

 **Regarding** _ **Dark Souls II**_ **, the vast majority of its lore, characters, and story has more to do with the Great War era (some stuff even going before that) rather than the modern era. I'd have originally explored that in** _ **Special Beings,**_ **but seeing as I have no hard plans to return to that, a lot of it is never going to be mentioned simply because it's beyond the scope of this fic.**

 **To be clear, I would have just said this in a PM, but I do kinda feel the need to apologise for giving** _ **DS2**_ **less attention than the other games—not just to Magicman (who was the one to bring up** _ **DS2**_ **), but to everyone. I love** _ **DS2**_ **too, and it sucks that I can't fit everything I love about it into this fic.**

 **And you may have noticed I've been careful saying which** **characters and stories from** _ **DS2**_ **specifically** _ **haven't**_ **found a place. That's because—no matter how well I plan—this fic continues to surprise me. I mentioned in an AN a while back that Sulyvahn was a complete accident (and he turned out popular enough), as was bringing Quelana back for a larger (if still supporting) role.**

 **Plans change. I can't promise you that I'll find a place for** _ **all**_ **your favourite stories to fit into this wild Remnant/Souls crossover world, but I can say with confidence that if I see a good opportunity to dive into—for example—the disastrous creation of the Bluemoon Greatsword, or the time a certain Iron King got his hands on the relic of creation, or Ozpin's experience living as a man named Grandahl…**

 **Well, first of all, psyche, all three of those events are part of the same story. Secondly, hell yeah I want to tell that story, but it needs to fit.**

 **But what I'm saying is that while I don't foresee that story (and stories like it) making their way into this fic, I'm also really bad at predicting the future, so who knows?**

* * *

Eliza Farron holstered her revolver, slung the Profaned Greatsword on her back, and made for the main building. "He'll be back soon," she said. "I suggest you all flee."

Jaune gasped for breath as he pulled himself up. "Where are you going? What have you done with Vengarl?"

"No time." She entered the building and took the stairs two at a time.

Jaune and Ren shared a confused glance. "I'll follow her. See if you can talk some sense into Solaire," Jaune said, gesturing to the Atlesian. His expression was blank, his mouth hanging listlessly.

"We've got what we came for," Ren said. "We should _all_ leave. Your aura's depleted."

"She knows where Vengarl is. She _must_. I can't let her get away, Ren," Jaune said. "Get out of here. I'll be fine. I promise."

/-/

Gilderoy Ornstein, hearing footsteps approaching, looked up from within the holding cell. Eliza Farron came marching in, grabbing his bident from the weapon rack before unlocking the door.

"We don't have much time," she said. "I need you to trust me."

He didn't really see much choice. He nodded.

"Did Doctor Polendina use you to look into the afterlife?" she asked.

He nodded again. His memories of it were fuzzy, like a bad dream, but they were there. Ash, rubble, sand, all that _fear…_

"A soul can, under normal circumstances, only interact with its connected body. The body is the vessel through which the soul interacts with the world, and the soul is the life force, your consciousness, so to speak. Are you with me so far?"

Gilderoy nodded.

"There once was a man whose semblance allowed him to detach his soul—and thus, his consciousness—from his body. A soul usually cannot directly interact with a body that is not its host, but he can interact with mine, possess it as a Geist might a suit of armour. But a soul _can_ interact with another soul. You are in the unique position of being able to shut your body down without permanently damaging it. Your soul can detach from your body. Thus, you can kill him."

She glanced over her shoulder. To Gilderoy's surprise, Jaune Arc entered the room behind her, panting, his eyes drawn to the bident. "…Ornstein?" he said.

"He's almost here." Farron, ignoring Jaune, pushed the bident into Gilderoy's hands. He held it like a lifeline. "Do it."

There was a doubt in the back of his mind. Wouldn't his soul just continue on to that hellscape? Doctor Polendina had never kept him under for more than a minute at a time.

It was one thing to detach a soul from a body. But to die was another thing entirely.

"Please," Farron said. "Trust me."

One by one, Gilderoy's vital functions shut down.

The ground shook.

/-/

Winter Schnee awoke.

Her head pounded, and her throat was parched. A quilt had been thrown over her to keep her warm. She pushed herself into a sitting position, wincing as the scabbed-over wound in her gut, a little above her right hip, shifted.

"Hawkwood?" she asked, the word a little raspy. The man in question sat in an armchair he'd moved to the hallway to keep watch on the door.

"Specialist Schnee?" He stood. "You're—"

"Bring me water," she said.

"Yes ma'am." He disappeared into another room and came back a moment later with a glass. The rim was inlaid with burn dust to prevent the water from freezing over.

Winter threw the quilt to the side—noting idly that they'd laid her across a hard table (which explained her sore back)—and stood to drink the water on shaky legs.

"I'm not sure you should be standing."

She scowled at him. "How long was I out? And where are Flynt and Solaire?"

"A little under a day," Hawkwood said. "They're rather occupied with the legion."

"And how's that going?"

"Well…" he checked his scroll. "They should be on their way back by now, so it's either been a rousing success or-"

The ground beneath them shuddered.

Winter turned to him. "…or?"

Hawkwood pursed his lips, then shrugged.

Winter turned, searching for her sword. She spotted it leaning against one of the chairs.

"You should really get more rest. I'll head out to find them."

"I'll be fine," she said. Her aura was hovering just below fifty percent. Not ideal, but then, its recovery had been slowed by the strain her wounds left. And she couldn't lie down, not now, not while they were still in danger.

She used her sabre to cut away a bloodstained rag on the left side of her face, and, in her reflection on the steel, saw a red, hardly-healed scar that ran from just below her ear all the way down her face and her neck to her collarbone.

Next, she cut away the rag around her midriff. The wound had reopened from her movements, though the blood had clotted so only a little blood leaked out. "Give me your burn dust," she said.

"That needs rest. Not dust."

"I know what I'm doing." She stepped closer to him, clutching the wound.

"We're handling it, Specialist Schnee. You're still injured. You're not fit to fight."

The ground trembled again. Winter struggled to keep her footing, gritting her teeth as the wound moved.

"Fine," she said.

She swung her sabre at the now-empty glass, smashing it open, then ran the blade over the burn dust that spilled onto the table. A spark of her aura ignited her weapon, and she pressed the hot metal to her wound.

"Winter!"

It was not an elegant solution, but it would keep the wound closed through more strenuous activity. She averted her eyes, hissing, her face scrunched up in pain, then, after a few seconds, pulled the steel away with a gasp and reactivated her aura. The smell of singed flesh seared her nostrils, and she grimaced.

She staggered for the door, throwing it open and looking outside. She wasn't the only one. She could see civilians peeking through windows, leaving their curtains ajar to look through the gaps. If they were smart, they'd stay inside.

To the north, a black mass was outlined against the silhouette of the wall through the snowfall, a writhing, long appendage coated in dirt and rock and black Grimm-gunk. And, down the street, a group of four men in red cloaks spotted her, pointing, and drew their swords.

She brandished her own and summoned a glyph.

/-/

The world was strangely muted, the colours dim and dulled, Jaune's voice as he shouted at Farron seeming to travel over a long distance before it reached him.

Gilderoy stepped out of his own body—or the shell that passed as a body—and breathed deeply for what felt like the first time.

He was himself again. He ran his hands through his hair.

"And who are you?"

Following the voice, Gilderoy looked to the entrance of the holding cell. A man stood there, with green eyes and cropped auburn hair speckled with grey, outlined in dull green light.

"Who are _you_?" Gilderoy asked.

"Tristan Fowler. A pleasure to meet you." The man crossed his arms. "She wants you to stop me, doesn't she? Did she tell you what will happen if she does?"

 _"Just kill him!"_ Eliza yelled. It echoed as if through a cave.

"How?" Gilderoy asked. He didn't have a weapon.

"She can't perceive you at all. But she can hear me. See me, too. Our souls are linked, you see, for better or for worse. But I avoid being in that disgusting body, when I can."

 _"Give me a straight answer, Farron. Where is Vengarl? What have you done with Gilderoy?"_ Jaune said, stalking closer. He shoved Farron aside, and she dropped Gilderoy's body—

And Gilderoy found himself gasping for breath, lying atop a dune.

The air was hot, and thick with smoke. He looked up in fear, and saw—

 _"Stay back!"_

Gilderoy blinked.

He was back in the holding cell.

Jaune was slumped against the wall, unconscious. Farron held Ornstein's metal shell by the wrist. Fowler lay near the entrance, having been thrown by something.

"You can't keep me out forever, Farron. You never can."

 _"Kill him, Ornstein!"_

Fowler picked himself up. "If you kill me, she dies. And if she's dead, she can't bring you back. You don't want to die, do you?"

"What do you mean?" Gilderoy asked.

"I do not _possess_ her, as she claims. Once upon a time, a little faunus girl was born with a soul so weak she was barely even alive. But Doctor Polendina saw value in her semblance: the ability to anchor a soul to its body, even after that body was broken, and so he took me—a soul that could survive _without_ a body—and fused me to her to keep her alive. Ours was the very first aura transfer, made possible by compatible semblances. As I understand it, he's since refined the process. Congratulations on your new…" he trailed off, glancing at Ornstein's body distastefully… "shell."

The ground shuddered. Jaune fell sideways.

"You don't want to face the Deep, do you?" Fowler asked.

"The Deep?"

"The afterlife. You just visited, before she pulled you back, didn't you? Return to your body and I'll take over hers. We don't need to fight."

"What will you do?"

"Cleanse Irithyll, of course. What else? It has already begun."

The ground shuddered once again.

 _"Trust me. Please,"_ Farron said.

Gilderoy clenched his fists, breathed in, and charged.

/-/

Jaune came around groggily. His head was pounding, and his back hurt. Before him, Farron struggled to lift up the suit of golden armour.

"What's going on?"

"Make yourself useful and help me," she said. "We'll need as many people as possible if we're going to beat the Grimm."

"The Grimm…?" Jaune pushed himself to his feet. Near the entrance to the holding cell, he saw a brief spark of green and gold, like aura clashing together. "What…?"

"Do you know where Winter is?"

"Why would I—?"

"Just tell me! All of Irithyll is at stake."

Jaune could hear the urgency in her voice and decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. He'd been left in the dark before, and, though it'd hurt, he knew that a crisis wasn't the right time to seek answers. "Lily Fowler's house."

"Good. We could use her help too."

Jaune pursed his lips. There'd be time for explanations—from both sides—later, if they all survived.

He was suddenly acutely aware that his aura was down. Ren's was extremely low too.

"They'll be headed for the Grimm, I'll bet. We should meet them there."

"The Grimm?"

"Yes, boy. The Grimm. Fowler's last resort." She hauled the golden armour up by the arms. "Come on. Lift his legs."

/-/

Winter had no time to be merciful.

She ducked and weaved and dived and dash, supporting her flagging strength with white glyphs that propelled her up and down the snowy street, attacking from all sides before the men of the legion could blink. Her dagger pierced the eye of one man, her sabre cut open the neck of another. She staggered as she pulled the weapon free, barely catching herself on a black glyph, then leaned back from a blow that could have taken her head clean off.

Hawkwood cut down her attacker, slicing across his knees with his sword then bashing his pommel into the back of his head.

It wasn't as quick as it could have been, Winter thought, a glyph propelling over Hawkwood's head and slamming her heel into the head of the last man, who'd thought to take Hawkwood out from behind. But not everybody had it in them to kill.

She rested her blade in the snow, leaning on it a little, and, looking at the blood that stained the pure white and darkened the men's red capes, she too felt a little remorse.

But she didn't have time. Killing was quick. Less risky.

"What's going on?" came a quiet voice. From one of the nearby houses, a man—no, a boy, perhaps thirteen or fourteen years of age—held the door ajar. He glanced fearfully to the north, to the dark shape of the Grimm.

"Stay inside," Winter said. "Lock the doors. We'll handle this."

In an ideal world, she'd have the city evacuated.

But there weren't enough airships, and certainly not enough pilots who could handle the weather. Nor could they brave a journey on foot. It was too cold, and too far—three weeks to get to Atlas, probably longer with a larger group. If they could even outpace the Grimm, many would die of the cold, starvation, or exhaustion.

"Solaire!" Hawkwood rushed past her, further down the street. Emerging through the snowfall came two figures. She recognised the Atlesian boy readily enough, but it took her a moment to place Lie Ren's face.

Solaire looked positively shellshocked, even as he supported a staggering Ren on his shoulder. Blood oozed from a deep cut in Ren's leg.

"What happened?" Winter asked.

"Where's Jaune?" Hawkwood said, taking Ren's other arm to carry his weight.

"We ran into the legion on the way back," Ren said. "My aura was already low. We fought them off, but…"

"What's wrong with Solaire?"

"I don't know. Jaune stayed behind. Farron had something of Vengarl's." Ren made to take another step, then hissed. "Would you mind, Hawkwood? My aura capacity shouldn't be too large for you."

Hawkwood nodded, then closed his eyes. Where he supported Ren's weight, colour and light flared, Ren's pink mixing with Hawkwood's crimson. It surged for Ren's wound, which began to scab over.

Ren tested his weight on it.

"What about Nora and Flynt?" Hawkwood asked. "Have you seen them?"

Ren shook his head. "Nora's tough. She'll be alright."

To the north, an almighty _crack_ echoed out, despite the storm. The wall began to crumble under the Grimm's weight.

A pink cloud of smoke exploded against the limb.

"Jaune and Farron can wait," Winter said. "We need to kill that Grimm. Are you with us, Solaire?"

He swayed on his feet and pinched the bridge of his nose, clenching his eyes shut.

"Solaire!"

"That's not…" he sighed, then opened his eyes. "I'm with you."

/-/

Nora dragged herself, hand over hand, out of the rubble, swiping away at the stray snowflake that floated beneath the belly of the Grimm.

The _thing_ , whatever it was, was easily the largest Grimm she'd ever seen, akin to a squid or an octopus with what might have been a bulbous, fleshy head, but which was instead covered in overlapping bone plates, through which peered eyes as big across as she was tall, their lids calloused, impenetrable skin. Its tentacles arrayed themselves around a mouth that contained row upon row upon row of sharp teeth, disappearing into the darkness of its maw, and the tentacles themselves were covered not in suction cups but in serrated bone blades, curved slightly inwards, that swept the snow aside effortlessly to dig into the rock and the dirt and the stone walls of the city, allowing it to pull itself around.

Nora shuddered to think what it would be like to fight this thing underwater. It was terrifying enough above ground.

She reached down for Flynt's hand, pulling him free of the rubble. By sheer virtue of its size, the Grimm had managed to avoid a cave in, bursting out of the ground and taking them with it. But now they were situated beneath it—beneath its gaping maw, which, luckily for them, was the one place it could not see.

"We can't let it into the city," Flynt panted. "The others must have seen it by now. They must be coming."

Nora looked towards Irithyll. More and more of the creature's tentacles were enveloping the wall, wrapping around the watchtowers. With a sudden heave, the beast pulled itself closer, tilting backwards—

Its mouth met the gatehouse. And the eyes on the back of its grotesque head saw them.

A tentacle speared towards them from above. Flynt and Nora dove apart, readying their weapons; "Here!" Flynt yelled, and blew a long, tinny note at the Grimm. Nora launched grenades towards him, and his blast acted like a funnel, guiding her explosives into the same spot every time.

The Grimm reeled, and another tentacle came loose from the Irithyll wall, flailing towards them, dragging it away from the city… and taking the wall with it.

The wall cracked, the pieces held by the monster cracking within its vice-like grip. Flynt was forced to cease his blast as a tentacle swept him aside; Nora dove out of the way then opened fire again, clouds of pink billowing up near the monster's mouth.

It seemed unperturbed.

"We need to get its attention!" she yelled.

Flynt pushed himself back to his feet and raised his trumpet. For a moment, his outline flickered, as if he left afterimages of himself, and then he _blew_.

A single, sharp, dissonant burst of sound split the air. The ground around him shuddered, and his aura noticeably flared—he'd just used a huge chunk of it.

But a crack appeared on the Grimm's bone plates.

It roared, a rancid, disgusting, _wet_ sound that had Nora clutching her ears in pain, then pulled itself around, tentacles dragging it faster than she could have imagined towards the musician.

"Right here, dumb-dumb!" she yelled, switching Magnhildr from launcher to hammer, raising it over her head. A tentacle swept past her as it dragged the monster forwards, and she brought the hammer down on top of it, driving the bone spurs beneath into the ground like a nail.

The beast turned towards her.

 _Well_ , she thought, _I got its attention._

/-/

Gilderoy Ornstein was losing.

For a start, he had no weapon, and he'd never been much of a fist fighter (though whether ethereal fists counted _as_ fists was another question entirely).

But the other factor contributing to his loss was that the rules didn't seem to apply like they normally did. It was not a matter of slowing his opponent down by targeting his legs or by knocking the air from his lungs. They had neither, though Gilderoy certainly felt like he did.

He understood the broad concepts behind it. The soul was the self; it stood to reason that the soul without a body would manifest as it believed a body should. Thus, although Gilderoy was, for the time being, purely a soul, it acted with the same properties that a body would.

Except for the ability to pick up his bident, which hung limply from his metal shell's hands as Jaune and Farron carried it out of the building.

Fowler, on the other hand, seemed to have no such restrictions. Gilderoy did not know how long his semblance had sustained him between his body's demise and his fusing with Farron, but perhaps it had been so long that he no longer recognised a need for a body at all. Or, perhaps, it had come with the semblance.

Either way, things were going poorly. Fowler seemed to feel no pain when Gilderoy landed a punch to the sternum. When Gilderoy managed to get a grip on him to throw him through the closed door onto the street, Fowler instead floated _through_ the door, righting himself on the other side before charging back in to deck Gilderoy in the chin.

Gilderoy tried to recall everything he'd learned about brawling. It was mostly from sparring with Artorias or from seeing Yang's fights in the tournament. Duck, reach, grab, lift, he managed to wrap his arms around Fowler's torso and raise him up, then slam him down into the snow-covered street.

But again Fowler disobeyed the rules, not needing to drag himself away through any reasonable means of propulsion and simply _floating_ away, as if pulled by a string along the ground before Gilderoy could follow up.

It was as if he was being pulled straight towards Farron's back. Fowler twisted, reaching out for her…

And his hand bumped against the sword sheathed across it. He bounced off it, glancing between his hand and the blade, surprised.

She stumbled, caught unprepared, and dropped Gilderoy's body—

Ash. Rubble. Sand. The afterlife again.

"Farron!" he screamed, tilting his head skyward and closing his eyes. He didn't want to see it, not again.

The air snapped back from hot to cold. He opened his eyes to see that he was face-up on a snowy street in Irithyll. He leapt to his feet; Jaune was propping up his body, while Farron kept one hand on his shoulder. The other hand brandished the Profaned Greatsword, forcing Fowler to keep his distance.

"What is this, Farron?" he called. "That's not how it's supposed to work."

 _"Well, I'm not going to complain."_ She swiped the weapon towards him experimentally—they weren't close enough for the blow to land, but Fowler still floated backwards warily. _"I can finally kill you myself."_

"Not if I take your body first. And one hand is… rather occupied." Fowler glanced over his shoulder to Gilderoy with a smirk. "You're hardly in a position to fight."

 _"Get back in your body, Ornstein. I can handle it from here."_

"Yes," Fowler said, turning back to Farron. "Personal matters always require a personal touch, don't they?"

Gilderoy took a step forwards, then reconsidered.

As long as he was around, Fowler wouldn't have the time to take over Farron's body. But the time it took for him to reboot his body would give Fowler the chance he needed while Farron kept his soul anchored. And there was no guarantee, even if by some miracle she lasted that long, that she could even beat him.

Which meant that the only thing to do was…

He ran at Fowler's back, leaping onto him and holding on tight. "Stab him!" Gilderoy roared, knowing that Farron couldn't hear him but hoping she'd realise his plan.

Her eyes widened, then she let go of his shoulder and lunged.

Gilderoy landed face-up on a pile of rubble. His eyes were already open; he could not look away. He felt himself being pulled towards it: the seal of fire in the sky, turning endlessly like a wheel to grind him to dust.

/-/

Eliza Farron almost collapsed, propping herself up on the sword. Green sparks, all that remained of Tristan Fowler, drifted down amidst the snow.

She breathed deeply and removed her mask, letting it fall to the ground. The man who'd tormented her for as long as she could remember was dead. The religious nutcase, the racist fool, the _parasite_ was dead.

"Farron?"

She glanced back to Jaune and rose to her feet. Her legs were shaking. But she was free.

She laid a hand on Ornstein's shoulder. "Ornstein brought the sword," she said. "If this Vengarl of yours is in trouble, he should know where to find him."

"So that _is_ Gilderoy?"

"Aye. But he won't be able to tell you much. He's effectively mute, for now."

To the north, the Grimm roared. Farron felt frail. Weak.

Fowler had not lied. Her soul was so diminutive that it wasn't a stretch to say she was barely alive. But she was not a little baby anymore. She was a trained huntress now, and aura control was her forte. It would compensate.

But if her aura broke, she feared it would be the end of her.

"We need to help fight the Grimm," Jaune said.

"Wait." Farron held up a hand. "Ornstein's not back yet."

They held for a moment. Two. Farron's eyebrows drew closer together.

"Should it take this long?" Jaune asked.

"I don't know. I suppose even an artificial body would need something to jumpstart it… something like CPR."

"I'm no expert, but it doesn't look like he's got a heart or lungs."

"No," Farron agreed.

"Try shock dust," Jaune said.

She gave him a questioning look.

Jaune shrugged. "It's the same principle as a defibrillator, isn't it? And it was always his thing."

Farron, keeping one hand on Ornstein's chest, reached into a pouch of dust ammunition. She pulled the cartridge open with her teeth, then poured the dust over the body.

Then, with a pulse of her aura, she activated it.

Ornstein shot upright.

Farron glanced across to the blond boy. "What's your name again?" she asked.

"Jaune Arc."

"You're smarter than you look, Mr Arc."

"…thank you?"

/-/

Ren, spotting Nora, rushed ahead to help her. Hawkwood approached warily, his aura a little depleted from healing Ren. Flynt, now that he could see reinforcements, retreated to the ruins of the wall, limping a little. Winter was holding back, one hand on her side, a grimace on her face, conjuring glyphs to move the others out of the way of the monster's strikes.

Solaire stood with her, wetting his lips nervously.

"You've still got plenty of aura, Solaire," she growled. "Get in there."

"I, uh… I rememb- I _found_ my semblance. I think," he said.

"Winter!" From behind them came three figures: Jaune Arc, Eliza Farron, and the man in the golden armour.

Winter drew herself to her full height. "Eliza," she greeted curtly. "I understand you're responsible for the legion?"

"It's a long story. I'm here to help. Where's Lily?"

Winter grimaced. "Solaire, whatever you're going to do—"

He raised his hands and closed his eyes.

The blizzard, all of a sudden, _stopped._ The air was still and quiet. The heavy clouds above grew darker. A charge built up between them, a spark, blue-turned-gold, leaping between the clouds.

Solaire's aura flared—then faltered. A lightning bolt struck the ground, missing the Grimm by some distance. He fell to his knees, gasping for breath.

"All your aura just for that?" Winter raised an eyebrow.

"I… I tried. I'm out of practice, I'm—"

"It doesn't matter right now," Jaune said. He called to Flynt as the older boy clambered up the rubble towards them. "Does this thing have a weakness?"

"Its eyes are better-protected than they look, but I damaged a bone plate on its head."

Jaune peered closer. The gears were whirring in his head. His eyes darted between the combatants. "Hawkwood!" he called.

The dour man turned back. "Hmm?"

"How's your aura?"

"About thirty. I gave most of it to Ren."

"Good. Good, I was going to say you should anyway. Give the rest to Solaire. I've got a plan."

/-/

"Over here!" From his position on the ruins of the gate, Jaune could hear Nora yelling, launching grenade after grenade towards the Grimm. "You unfried calamari!"

The Grimm dragged itself towards her, then brought a tentacle sweeping outwards to collect her.

"Now!"

Winter stabbed her sabre into the ground, and a black glyph formed beneath Nora, anchoring her in place, then a series of white glyphs above her. Solaire raised his hands, and a lightning bolt, golden as the sun, was guided through the glyphs to strike Nora dead-on.

Nora holstered her weapon and, roaring, grabbed the tentacle with both hands, then pulled, lifting the entire monster into the air and slamming it back down so that the plate Flynt had cracked was facing upwards.

"Gilderoy!" Jaune yelled.

A flash of gold darted in and out between the tentacles, arriving next to Nora, to drive a bident through the trapped appendage and nailing it into the earth.

"Up!"

Jaune turned, bracing his shield against his shoulder, and a white glyph appeared on its face. Farron rushed towards him, using the shield as a springboard. Further back, Ren knelt, his palm to the ground. Colour drained from the world in a pulse, hiding Farron from the beast's gaze; she'd not be able to correct course should the monster try to stop her. A moment later, Ren collapsed, the sweat on his brow already going cold.

But his work was done. The beast's eyes closed beneath them as she fell, but its eyes weren't her target. Her sword came down on the bone plate, embedding itself in the cracks.

"Nora, now!"

The girl raced up the pinned tentacle, raising Magnhildr. She drove the blade deeper through the plate like a hammer on a nail, shattering the bone entirely and embedding the sword hilt-deep in the Grimm's head.

The beast screamed. Its breath was like a hot breeze downwind of a dump. Jaune grimaced. It flailed, tentacles spasming and flailing in its death throes, dislodging Gilderoy's bident and throwing Nora and Farron from its bulbous head.

They scrambled clear of its flailing tentacles, Nora taking a blow to the back but her aura holding. Soon, the Grimm grew still, and black smoke began to rise from its wound.

Jaune breathed a sigh of relief.

They were battered, bruised, all their auras low or broken, but the Grimm was dead. They were safe.

* * *

 **I won't be talking at about all the stuff going on with Solaire, just in case you haven't pieced it together yet.**

 **But let's talk a little about Eliza Farron and Tristan Fowler. The idea for that little subplot was born of the Abyss Watcher's bossfight itself, representing the legion killing each other over and over again. It also serves to show the growth of Polendina's aura-transfer tech.**

 **It also tied back to that brief experiment Polendina ran with Gilderoy to peer into the afterlife. More of a reminder that that** _ **was a thing.**_ **Because it'll be a** _ **big thing**_ **later.**

 **I'm still not super happy with this chapter's structure. There's a** _ **lot**_ **going on** _ **all the time**_ **, and I worry that the jumping around to different groups throughout Irithyll makes things hard to follow, but I didn't want to break it up into two chapters.**

 **But still, a lot of important stuff happens. The Grimm was mostly there for the sake of it, but we get a little reminder of the Profaned Greatsword's history, Solaire's subplot gets pushed a little, as does the Atlas arc in that Ornstein is finally in a position to rat out Watts.**

 **Speaking of the Grimm, I just wanted to cram in as many cool combo attacks as I could while I had, what? Nine characters all in the same place? I'm pretty happy with how the fight ended, mostly because every opportunity to supercharge Nora is a delight.**

 **We'll be taking a break from Atlas next time for a (probably) final Menagerie chapter. I'll admit it took me a little longer to put this chapter because I was writing the Menagerie stuff ahead of time, but it's worth it. It's a good one.**


	57. Chapter 56: Drinks with Ilia

**I can't explain why, but the Opportunity rover hit me pretty hard. It's not relevant to the story, I just wanted to share that.**

 _ **My battery is low and it's getting dark.**_

* * *

"Morning, gentlemen."

Fennec Albain came to groggily. He and his brother had been bound together and tossed unceremoniously on a bloodstained bed. Corsac's robes were blackened and burnt around the midriff, revealing a line of red and blistering skin.

Kali Belladonna stood by the doorway, Ilia next to her with a cast on her left hand.

"We'd have found you better quarters, if you deserved them," Kali said.

"Sister Ilia," Fennec said. "It should be no surprise that _you_ are the traitor in our midst."

Kali snorted. "That's rich. You killed my husband."

Fennec rolled his eyes. "What is it you want from me? Are you going to kill us?"

"No. I just wanted the satisfaction of seeing you bound and bloodied."

Corsac groaned as he awakened, then winced in pain. "What's going on?"

"Once you tell us what we want to know, both of you will rot in a cell for the rest of your lives," Ilia said. "I'll be taking over the White Fang in Menagerie."

"You always were an ambitious one," Fennec said.

"You think I was after your job?" Ilia crossed her arms. "You went too far. Somebody needs to do better, and it may as well be me."

"You helped us, Ilia. Don't forget that."

"That's enough." Kali stepped backwards and, with a wave, beckoned Artorias into the room. "They're all yours," she said, then departed.

Artorias leaned against the wall. "Morning, gentlemen," he said.

"Mrs B already did that," Ilia said.

Artorias pursed his lips and cursed under his breath.

"Quite the act you're putting on for us," Corsac said. "We know you're looking for Brother Adam. We won't tell you anything."

"Really?" Artorias shared a glance with Ilia. "Care to explain what happened with your hand, Ilia?"

Ilia sighed. "He broke it to get information out of me," she said.

"If that's how I treat my friends—"

"We're not friends now and we weren't friends then," Ilia corrected.

"—what do you think I'll do to you?"

"Please. You're a huntsman, not a torturer. I have more reason to be afraid of Ilia than you," Fennec said.

"You're probably right to be," Artorias said.

/-/

"Do you trust Ilia?" Ana asked idly, sipping at her tea. From the room down the hall she heard a muted cry of pain. Kali coughed over them.

"As much as I can a member of the White Fang these days. She'll still have to answer to Sienna, but I'd rather that than Adam."

"And outlawing the Fang from Menagerie is out of the question?"

"Another group with similar ideas would inevitably spring up. Better the Fang with Ilia at their head than someone I don't know. I'm glad she offered to take over, in fact."

"Do you think she'll be able to handle it? There'll be others who see her youth as a weakness. It's unlikely the position will go unchallenged, especially by those more sympathetic to Adam and the Albains."

"She's tougher than she looks, Quelana."

The door down the hall opened. Artorias and Ilia emerged, the latter's right hand stained with blood. She disappeared further down the hall to the bathroom, while Artorias slumped down on the couch.

"How'd it go?" Ana called.

"Adam's been summoned by Sienna Khan to New Halgot. He intends to kill her and take her place."

"How long?"

Artorias shrugged. "Unclear."

"And how are the Albains?" Kali asked.

"They might be missing a few teeth. Nothing too serious. Do you mind if we borrow an airship, Mrs B?"

"Do either of you fly?"

Ana shook her head. Artorias shrugged. "I understand the basics."

"You do?"

"Ruby flew more-or-less fine her first try at Beacon. It can't be that hard, right?"

"I'll see about loaning you a pilot too." She stood. "I'll get some guards to help with the Albains. Today I'll be issuing a statement to Menagerie regarding the fact that—well, that I'm alive—and begin the discussion of Ghira's successor. Your airship will be ready by tomorrow morning. Thank you both for your help."

"Any time, Mrs B."

She made for the door. Ilia came down the hallway, drying her right hand off with a towel.

She stopped at the living room, her lips twitching downwards in a frown.

"You alright?" Artorias asked.

"Yeah…" She pursed her lips. "Were you serious about that drink? I could use it."

"I'm a man of my word." Artorias stood, then frowned. "That doesn't sound right. A _wolf_ of my word? Anyway, will you be joining us, Ana?"

"It's nine in the morning."

"…and?"

She rolled her eyes. "I'll see about sending word back to Vacuo. And if Kali needs any more help—"

"You're welcome to join us whenever it arbitrarily becomes an appropriate time to start drinking."

"If you're not under the table, perhaps I will."

/-/

It would have been easier to find an empty bar than it was an open bar at such an early hour, but Ilia knew a small, dingey tavern that Artorias quickly recognised as the place where he and the Albains had first spoken.

"You were listening in, weren't you?"

"Naturally."

They sat at the bar and ordered drinks, Artorias a glass of cheap whiskey and her some clear, tropical cocktail comprised mostly of gin. The first round went by quickly, awkwardly, neither comfortable enough to say anything more.

It was towards the beginning of the second drink that Artorias finally spoke. "I'm sorry about your hand."

"Yeah, well, you should be. It wasn't very nice."

"You broke Fennec's teeth an hour ago."

Ilia sipped at her drink. "If you'd just waited a little, I'd have helped anyway, the moment Yuma said Ghira and Kali were in danger."

"I didn't know he'd fess up."

"Maybe if you'd been keeping a closer eye on things, he'd still be alive."

"I could say the same of you," Artorias said. "You've been here longer. You _helped_ them _._ " He sighed. "Sorry. Not your fault."

"No. It's true." She frowned, then raised her glass. "To Ghira?"

"To Ghira." They drank. The whiskey wasn't very good, and Artorias suppressed a cough.

"Did you know him well?" he asked.

"Not very well," she admitted, "but I knew his daughter. This wasn't long after Sienna took over. It was only for a year, maybe a little less, even, but… we were all like a family. Blake was… well, Blake, and Adam treated me like his little sister. Sometimes I think he spent more time with our doctor than he spent in the field. Seemed like every mission he'd take a bullet or two that was meant for me. I wasn't exactly up to scratch back then." She shook her head. "I miss that Adam."

"As opposed to the Adam who burned Beacon to the ground?"

"He was—is, maybe—still my friend. I don't know. It's hard. Don't push me, Nym."

"For what it's worth, I know how you feel, to think of somebody as 'good' and to have that worldview ripped away."

"Yeah?" Ilia snorted. "Where'd you grow up, Vale? Things seem pretty cut and dry there."

"I wouldn't say that."

"No? We're the first suspects for every crime, profiled at the airdocks, it's harder for us to get jobs, and those who own businesses attract less customers, but everyone—even the faunus—pretends everything is fine. Am I wrong?"

" _Fewer_ customers," Artorias corrected.

"Hmm?"

"Fewer. Not less." He cursed under his breath and sipped at his drink. This was Winter's fault, he was sure of it. "You're right, though. It's not so bad for huntsmen, at least."

"Still bad enough that you picked Shade over Beacon."

He glanced at her sidelong. "I don't remember telling you that. Have you been spying on me?"

"Yes. I was very explicitly spying on you—briefly."

"Fair enough."

"But that's not how I know. You beat Pyrrha Nikos in Remnant's biggest tournament. _Everybody_ knew who you were, for a day or two. You know, before your team announced that your partner would go to the singles. News cycle forgot about you after that."

"Didn't even realise. I was spending my afternoons hunting down your colleagues at the time."

She hummed into her glass as she drank. "Small world."

"But it wasn't a racial thing. I just wanted to start over."

"Reinvent yourself?"

He nodded.

"And why would you want that? Maybe it was the pressure of growing up in a society that taught you that it was wrong for you to even exist?"

He narrowed his eyes at her. "You're awfully coherent. You clearly haven't drunk enough."

"Perhaps not." She knocked back the rest of her cocktail and ordered the next round.

"Or maybe you've been there too," Artorias said.

She smiled. It gave away that she was a rather shy girl, despite her profession. The smile reached her eyes, but she seemed self-conscious of the act, averting her gaze.

"Once or twice," she said.

"Did it work?"

She shrugged. "No, but it doesn't matter. I never really changed. I just grew, and I'm still growing." She peered into her glass, pursed her lips, then took a swig. "And what about you? Did 'reinventing yourself' work for you?"

Artorias sighed, then downed his still-full glass of whiskey in one.

"That bad?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Want to talk about it?"

About how his discovery that he'd not been happy in a year? And that he'd hardly been happy even before that? His discovery that he hardly even cared anymore whether he lived or died?

With the girl whose hand he'd broken?

He dismissed that thought. It was just a deflection: it didn't matter who Ilia was, and even then, she wasn't quite a friend,though they certainly weren't enemies anymore. Even if it'd been Ana sitting across from him, he'd have much rather buried his misery.

Like he always did.

He sighed.

"I don't know what's wrong with me, or how to fix it. How to… change. Grow. And that sucks. I feel…" he trailed off, searching for the right words. "Imagine if someone baked a cake but added pepper instead of sugar. That's how I feel. You can't take the cake apart and fix it. It's stuck that way."

"How would someone mistake pepper for sugar?"

"I was going to say salt, but then I wasn't sure if salt was already an ingredient."

"It is, usually. But only a pinch."

"Good to know."

Ilia ran a finger around the rim of her glass. "I get it, though. I used to feel guilty, because I could pass as human. Because I _did_ pass as human. It wasn't so bad for a while, just this doubt in the back of my mind. I was surrounded by people who believed that suffering was the faunus' place in the world. It was safer to blend in, and, at first it seemed like a gift, but as time went on, it felt more and more like a curse. Like, if the gods made me a faunus, why didn't they just go all the way? Give me horns, or ears, or a tail. Something unmistakeable."

"And then you grew?"

"And then I grew," she agreed. "There was a… bad day. I snapped. Outed myself to all those bastards. And, when Atlas cast me out, the White Fang taught me I didn't have to be ashamed that I could hide. That I didn't have to be ashamed of who I was. That it didn't make me any less of a faunus."

"That sounds like a recruitment spiel, and no, I'm not joining the Fang."

She chuckled and finished her drink.

"Ana's gone through something similar, though. You might have a lot in common."

"Oh?" Ilia raised an eyebrow, then tapped the bartop as the bartender passed. He poured the next round.

"It's not really my place to say," Artorias said. "But you should ask her, when she gets here."

"What's the deal with you two anyway?" Ilia asked, accepting her next drink gratefully.

"What do you mean?"

"My first impression was that you two are, you know, _together_ , but I've been getting a bit of a gay vibe off you, so I'm not so sure anymore."

Artorias pursed his lips, not entirely sure how to respond. "I'm, uh, flattered that you think that, but I'm not gay."

"What's flattering about it?" She raised an eyebrow.

He shrugged helplessly and sipped his new drink.

"So you two _are_ an item, then?"

"No." He glanced up at her, his eyes narrowed. "Wait, are you gay?"

"I'm not sure where this is going, but yes."

"Well, Ana's bi, so I fully encourage you to go for it."

"You realise you two are leaving for New Halgot in, like, a day, don't you?"

"Nothing wrong with you two having a brief fling in the meanwhile though, is there? Unless you're already with someone. Are you?"

"You realise you're playing matchmaker for your friend and a girl whose hand you broke?"

"Actually, I'm playing matchmaker for my _ex_ and a girl whose hand I broke."

Ilia opened her mouth to speak, paused, then took a long drink. "You're weird," she said.

"So what? While we're on topic, I think I should remind you that she has a forked tongue."

The spots on Ilia's cheeks flushed bright pink.

Artorias laughed. "If I've crossed a line, just tell me to—"

"Shut up."

He closed his mouth, though a few snorts escaped him as his chuckles died down. Ilia fixed him with a baleful stare.

"I was asking because I was wondering if either of you would be willing to stay in Menagerie. I'm stressed. The Albains weren't Adam's only supporters. I could use the help of somebody I can…" She trailed off.

"Trust is too strong a word, isn't it?"

"Exactly," she said. "But something like that. I know you have your mission, but the schism in the White Fang won't die with Adam."

"I've already said you won't be recruiting me."

"For the best, really. You annoy me. I'd much prefer Quelana."

"I think we've more than established that."

"Nym," she said warningly.

"But you'd have to ask her. And while you're asking her about that, you could also—"

She grabbed him by his top-right ear and slammed his face into the bartop.

"No fighting in my tavern," the bartender warned. "Try that again and I'm kicking you out."

"No, no, it's alright, I deserved that." Artorias rubbed his nose. "Look, it wouldn't hurt to ask, but I don't think she'd stay." He frowned. "And are we really your best options? Only a few nights ago we were beating you and Yuma silly."

"Hey, we held our own!"

Artorias made a so-so gesture with one hand. "Is there nobody else you can trust?"

"Trifa, maybe. But she's dead." Ilia raised her glass to her lips, then grimaced and lowered it again. "I'm not ready for this."

"For what?"

"To lead. To set an example. I'm just a spy. A… a failed huntress."

Artorias raised an eyebrow. "You were a huntress?"

"Almost. Not even that. Spent a little under a year at Solstice Academy in Atlas." She frowned. "I'm sorry. I think I've had too much to drink."

"We could have been classmates."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, two years apart, but there's no way you'd have gone to Atlas. You'd have done what I did. Enrolled at Shade, right?"

She stared down into her glass, then took a long drink. "I don't know. I was blending in fine until…"

"Until?"

"None of your business."

Artorias took a sip of his drink, then unhooked Ilia's whip from his belt and laid it on the bar.

"You could come with us, if you like."

"Literally… however many minutes ago, I admitted that Adam and I are friends."

"Or were friends?" Artorias asked.

"Jury's out these days," she said. "I don't agree with his idea—ideo…" She frowned, then opened her mouth, trying to form the word. "He's gone too far. But I do still care about him. You'd be a fool to trust me at your back."

"Mistral's on the way to New Halgot, you know. Last I heard, Blake was heading there."

She was sipping at her drink when he mentioned Blake's name. She coughed it down, eyes wide, gasping for breath.

"Need a moment?" Artorias asked.

She nodded. Artorias beckoned to the bartender for some water. She gulped it down greedily.

"I'm needed here," she said at last. "If not me, someone else will take over for the Albains. Someone worse."

"Alright then." Artorias pursed his lips. "If I see her, I'll tell her you—"

"Don't," Ilia said.

Artorias, wisely, shut up.

Ilia sighed. "I doubt she'd care to hear anything about me. Even anything good."

"Did you part on bad terms?"

"No. Not at all. I just… I don't think I was as important to her as she was to me."

"Oh. I see." Artorias traced the rim of his glass with a finger. "I'm not sure there's a cure for that except falling for someone else."

"You never shut up for long, do you?"

"I'm not kidding."

Ilia narrowed her eyes. "You're not over Quelana," she said. "You are _so_ weird."

"Huh?"

"You're trying to set your ex-girlfriend— _who you're still in love with_ —up with the girl whose hand you broke."

"Firstly, uh, mostly no," Artorias floundered. "And secondly, it's 'with whom'. My ex-girlfriend _with whom_ I may or may not still have serious emotional attachments."

"You're also a nerd."

"I can actually blame the Schnees on that one."

"Maybe you'd fit right into the Fang."

"Heh. Maybe."

Ilia peered into her glass. "I'm serious, though. I'm about to be way in over my head. I'm just a spy."

Artorias looked her up and down, finished his drink, then, with his left hand, tapped her on both her shoulders. "I dub thee a huntress."

"I don't think that's how it works."

"Why not? You're a huntress, you're a leader, you're whatever you want to be."

"I'm not any of those things."

"You'll grow into it. You're doing something you're passionate about, so the people looking to you will follow your example. Now, it's unfortunate that you're passionate about stealing dust, taking hostages—"

"That's a very reductive view of the White Fang's methods."

"—trashing storefronts—"

"Only if the manager is intolerant."

"—blowing up the odd landmark—"

"Maldron was a war criminal and does _not_ deserve a statue."

"—harming cops who're mostly just doing their jobs—"

"Get to the point, Nym."

"Look, what I'm saying is you're a far sight better than Adam. I think you'll do great."

She finished her own drink. "That might've been a really nice thing to say if you hadn't just dismissed all the work we've done."

Artorias sighed. "I don't agree with most of it. But you're right that it gets results. What I'm saying is that I believe in you, gods know why."

"You just did it again. But thank you."

"And look, I'm not even a licensed huntsman yet, and I'm not a great teacher either, but if you want to spar I could give you some pointers."

"After… however many drinks? Sounds like a bad move."

"Why not?"

Ilia, for a moment, almost wanted to disagree. "Sure," she said, scooping her whip off the bar and hooking it to her belt. "Why not?"

/-/

" _Oscar."_

Oscar Pine stood by the window, looking out. It had not snowed for some days, and though there was still a chill in the air the snow was beginning to melt. He knew what Ozpin wanted. Spring was almost upon them.

 _"Oscar, we must leave."_

"It's almost time to plant the crops. My aunt will need help."

 _"You are ready for this Oscar. I saw—"_

"The _one_ Beowolf, yes." It had almost chomped off Oscar's arm, aura be damned. He crossed his right arm over his chest, resting his hand on his left shoulder. It still ached a little. "You could have taught me how to properly _use_ my aura."

 _"You professed a desire to be left alone."_

"Oh, very clever," Oscar drawled. "It's not stopping that ghost from haunting me."

 _"I'd love to say otherwise, but unfortunately I don't have control over the embodiment of a guilt-laden memory conjured from a subconscious fractured by centuries of death and rebirth."_ Ozpin said matter-of-factly. Oscar rolled his eyes. _"You don't seem to mind Lucatiel."_

"Because she helps, when she's not being mysterious. But she does that a lot."

 _"Oscar—"_

"I'll go. I promise you, I'll go. I just… not yet. I need a little more time."

 _"I have known people who have begged for 'a little more time' for their entire lives."_

Oscar's heart caught. He didn't know whether Ozpin was lying for effect or not, but it'd certainly had an effect. He'd finally found the right words to reach through to Oscar.

Because Ozpin was right. He didn't want to be a farmhand for the rest of his life. But one day, if he wasn't careful, he'd find that he had been.

Was he ready to be something more?

Did it matter?

/-/

In the last days of winter, southern Anima was cold, and a little wet. It was too far south for snow.

Qrow Branwen hated it. If it couldn't be warm, why couldn't it just _be cold?_ Instead he had to deal with this disgusting mix of near-freezing and humid. He tore his sword out of a Beowolf's skull, scowling.

The kids would be reaching Shion soon. He'd have to stow away on the airship to keep up; he'd not be fast enough as a bird. He was fine with that. He never liked being in bird form for too long at once. It was when the worms started looking appealing. _That_ was when he knew he'd been flapping around too long.

He leapt from the clifftop, body shifting and shrinking, arms turning to wings, and swooped over the heads of Team RWBY to scout for the Grimm.

/-/

Quelana arrived home late that evening. Artorias was waiting for her, the sparring (and a shower) having more-or-less sobered him up since the day-drinking. He had a little bit of a headache, though.

"Did you talk to Ilia?" he asked.

"She called. I'm not staying," she said simply.

"Wait, she _called_? Did I remember to give her scroll back?"

"She said she nicked it from your pocket while you were sparring. Nicked yours too for my contact details." She tossed him his scroll.

"Huh. She's good."

"Might I ask _why_ you two were sparring?"

Artorias shrugged. "Did she say anything else?"

"No. Of course not! Why?"

Artorias raised an eyebrow. "You're very defensive."

"Nothing happened."

He kept the eyebrow raised.

She rolled her eyes. "Fool," she muttered. "I sent a letter back to Shade. I doubt it'll be in time for any backup, but it's something."

"Come on, don't change the subject. No sordid details, but…?"

"Kali's pilot can take us as far as Catarina, after which he'll be refuelling and turning back. It's a week-long train ride from there to Mistral. If we can't find an airship there, it'll be another month on foot to New Halgot."

"Ana—"

"Do you not find it strange to be playing matchmaker for your ex?"

"So she _did_ ask you out. I'm so proud of her." He feigned wiping a tear from his eye. "How'd it go?"

She pursed her lips, frowned, then looked away, hiding her face in her hood.

Artorias smirked.

* * *

 **Artorias' entire personality is a web of coping mechanisms built up as far back as he can remember. A typical internal conflict might involve some self-doubt, a moral quandary, or conflicting personal goals, but his is that** _ **he does not know who he is.**_ **He can't pin down what makes Artorias… Artorias. He can finally recognise (some of) the coping mechanisms, but he wonders: what is it he's actually coping with? It's not just his daddy issues, it's not just the aftermath of the Fall of Beacon, it's not just post-relationship loneliness. I've said before that Artorias has** _ **always**_ **been broken… though to say exactly** _ **how**_ **would be a spoiler.**

 **I'll say that the 'Wolf Knight' identity was his best coping mechanism for it, and his dropping it because of other characters calling it out as 'extra' were the first steps towards his recent breakdown. But they were right. It was pretty extra.**

 **If we want to talk about the thing that makes him** _ **him**_ **, though, the biggest core personality trait he has (coping mechanisms aside) is that he tries to be a mentor figure. We've seen this with Jaune and (to a lesser extent) Pyrrha heading into the dance arc, we've seen it with Quelaan ('She should be better than me.'), and now we've seen it with Ilia.**

 **As an aside, Artorias correcting people's grammar because he picked it up from Winter is my new favourite running gag, and it's not even that funny.**

 **We're touching on Oscar and Team RWBY again-for Team RWBY, I think this is their first appearance in, fifteen chapters. I just wanted to establish that the sort of 'canon V4' paths are getting picked up again. Not exactly in the same way as canon, sure, but... you get what I mean.**


	58. Chapter 57: From Dust

**It's been almost two years since I published the prologue. Dang, yo. As ever, I appreciate everyone that's read this far. It's always nice to know I'm not shouting this story into the void, haha.**

 **When did y'all pick this fic up? Has anybody been here since the beginning?**

* * *

Technically, the legion had been 'riled up', and now that Gilderoy understood the relationship between Tristan Fowler and Eliza Farron—that being that Fowler was the true power behind the legion—he couldn't twist Watts' orders to allow him to stay around. It was all he could do to keep his body completely still. If he let it move at all, he was sure it'd be compelled to fight his way off of Ironwood's airship barehanded. His orders, after all, were to avoid the military and _anyone_ in Ironwood's employ.

That he'd been able to fight the Grimm at all confused him.

Winter had arrested them both immediately after the Grimm had been taken down. Rather, when Farron had been cuffed, Gilderoy had held his hands out for a pair of handcuffs for himself, and Farron had explained that he had very little agency. It was frustrating, to say the least.

So now here he was, being quite literally dragged through the corridors of Ironwood's ship from his cell to the General's quarters. Or an interrogation room. He wasn't sure which. One of the soldiers carrying him glanced down at him, an odd expression on his face. Disgust, perhaps. Or pity.

It turned out he _was_ being brought to an interrogation room. General Ironwood sat at the table across from the entrance. Gilderoy was shackled into his seat, and the guards left him. There was a slate and chalk on the table in front of him, along with a capsule of shock dust. The Profaned Greatsword was leaning against the wall opposite the one-way mirror.

"Mr Ornstein," the general said. "It's good to see you again."

Ornstein sat stock still, not trusting his body to not betray him.

"I'm already aware of Doctor Polendina's death. Miss Farron has informed me that you're working under another's orders, but, for various reasons, I don't entirely trust her. Can you confirm her story for us? Whose orders are you following?" He gestured to the slate.

Gilderoy tried answer. He really did. But the moment the motors in his arms moved, whatever inhibitor program installed in his artificial brain whirred into overdrive. The room was a threat. General Ironwood was a threat. The entire ship was a threat. He wasn't allowed to be here. He had to get out.

If not for the fact he was chained to the chair, he'd have lunged across the table. As it was, he tore the chair out from where it had been bolted to the floor, then promptly fell on his side, flailing ineffectively.

Ironwood averted his eyes. "Bring her in," he called.

The door opened again a second later, and Winter entered, holding Eliza Farron firmly on the arm. The latter's hands were cuffed.

She knelt down next to Gilderoy and laid her hands on his shoulder. He knew what to do immediately. Muscles shut down first, and his movements ceased. Then the world went dark as optics went down, the subtle heartbeats his aural implants picked up fading away into nothing.

And then he picked himself up in a colourless world and dusted himself off.

 _"Use the sword,"_ Farron said. _"Write it on the walls."_

 _Oh,_ Gilderoy thought. _That makes sense. Kind of._

Winter and Ironwood both instinctively reached for their weapons as, from their perspective, the sword began to float of its own accord. Gold aura sparked around the handle where he held it, and on the flat of the blade where he held it steady with his arm.

He jabbed the blade into the wall and dragged the sword downwards, slowly writing a name:"Watts _._ " A greatsword was hardly a precise writing utensil, and the word was spelled out in large, clumsy letters.

 _"See, General?"_ Farron called. _"As if I'd lie for political gain."  
"You were always cleverer than you let on, Miss Farron. Mr Ornstein, can you confirm that Eliza operated the legion under duress from a—and it seems strange to ask this—a parasitic soul?"_

 _"I'm telling you, General. Project Afterlife, Subject 000C. It'll tell you everything you need to know. Polendina only kept hard copies of our files. Why would I lie?"_

 _"To avoid prison?"_ Winter pointed out.

 _"Okay, fair point."_

 _"We found no such documents in his lab,"_ Ironwood said. _"Mr Ornstein, if you would?"_

"Yes," Ornstein wrote.

" _See? Told you,"_ Farron said. _"Will that be all?"_

"One last thing. Did Watts take Vengarl?"

Gilderoy tapped the word, "Yes," with the tip of the sword.

Ironwood nodded, more to himself than anyone else. _"Very well. Winter, uncuff her. And give Mr Ornstein the shock dust."_

Gilderoy's eyes widened. He quickly carved a great downward gash on what little space was left on the wall, causing Winter to once again instinctively reach for her weapon, then followed it up with a stab beneath it: an exclamation point.

A cry for help.

He doubted that Ironwood appreciated the damage to Atlas property. He couldn't bring himself to care. He wanted to escape this nightmare.

 _"There's little we can do."_ Ironwood, said. _"Doctor Polendina's files are encrypted. It could be some time before we know_ how _to help you."_

 _"Trust me."_ Farron rubbed her wrists. _"He had hard copies for stuff like this. Paranoid bastard didn't trust the network for anything… shady."_

 _"Be that as it may, we've found nothing of the sort. But you have my word, Mr Ornstein. As soon as I know how to help you, I will."_

/-/

"Does that really make you feel better?"

Solaire glanced behind him, half-expecting to see a woman's face despite it being very clearly Hawkwood's voice. The dour man leaned against the door to Solaire's temporary quarters aboard the airship, an eyebrow raised.

Guiltily, Solaire turned back around, using his hand to rub the message he'd written in soapstone from the wall. _You will be okay_ , it read. Nothing more. Nothing less. And, after another moment, it didn't read at all.

"It used to be all I had."

"Oh, you're not going to do your 'I'm an orphan but look where I am now' thing again, are you? Yes, yes, your life story is very uplifting, but _gods_ it's annoying."

"Do you have to be such a dick?"

"It's all I have," Hawkwood mimicked. "I actually thought I'd congratulate you on finally finding your semblance—and a half-decent one at that—before I saw you wallowing in self-pity."

"Go away."

"No. And I say 'no' for one simple reason." Hawkwood stepped over the threshold. "You took a life. That's rough. I doubt I'm much comfort, but I can promise you I will always be here when you need me."

"You're more of an anti-comfort."

"Hmm. I like the sound of that." The quarters were threadbare, but there was a desk with a terminal and a chair against one wall. Hawkwood spun the chair around and sat. "You can write your silly self-help mottos on my forehead, if you like."

Solaire watched his friend, his gaze measured. Hawkwood was steady, stoic, his mouth set in a grim line, not betraying a hint of comedy despite his words.

When Solaire blinked, he found his own left eye to be suddenly obscured by blood, and he heard a crack of thunder echoing across a harbour he could not see but that he _knew_ to be there.

He flinched. The blood went away. The air was silent. He was on an airship. His partner was with him. He was fine.

Hawkwood's forehead creased with concern. "If I'm bothering you—really bothering you—I'll leave."

"No. No, it was… something else. A memory."

"A memory?"

Solaire shrugged helplessly. "I don't know. Can you just… I need to sort this out myself." _I think I'm going mad and I don't want you to know._

"I'd rather talk." It was not Hawkwood who spoke, but rather a woman's voice in the doorway. Eliza Farron stood before him, the gun on her hip displayed prominently. She offered a crooked, false smile.

Hawkwood pursed his lips. "Do you still want me to leave?"

Solaire nodded.

Hawkwood ducked out, glancing back once before disappearing into a corridor. Farron let him pass but remained in the doorway.

"Winter told me what happened to Lily."

Solaire kept his eyes downcast. "I did what I had to do," he said.

"I understand that. I'm angry, don't get me wrong. But I've spent most of my life mitigating my worst half's anger. It'd be poor form if I couldn't keep my own in check."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologise to me. Lily's biggest flaw was always a desire for approval, from everyone. She had a pathological desire to be loved, and she asked it of people who didn't deserve the chance—people who _wouldn't_ love her. It's a shame, but there was no other way it could have ended."

"I don't understand."

"I can't forgive you. If I'd been in your shoes, Winter would be dead right now." Solaire flinched. "I can't forgive you, and I don't approve... but I understand. And, annoyingly enough, I know Lily would forgive you. It's just how she… how she was." Farron sighed and ran a hand through her hair. "Try not to beat yourself up too much over it."

/-/

"Mr Ornstein has confirmed that Watts is controlling him, and the autopsy all-but-confirmed that his bident was the weapon that killed Doctor Polendina." Ironwood flipped the file open on his desk.

"So… that _is_ Gilderoy?" Jaune asked while Ren inspected the document. General Ironwood didn't waste time. They'd only just reached his office at his summons.

"Yes. Perhaps I should have told you. But I was hopeful he'd escaped this mess."

"You _knew?_ "

"Doctor Polendina informed me—to put it lightly. It's no matter now. We'll be moving against Doctor Watts as soon as we land."

Jaune shared a glance with Nora. "We? Is it just going to be us?"

"Specialist Schnee's first aid is… serviceable, but she should have her injury seen to as soon as possible. Flint will be going with her. I don't feel Solaire is prepared for further responsibility; he and Hawkwood will be relieved for a few days to recover. We will be enough, Mr Arc," Ironwood said. "I have no reason to believe he has any more allies in Atlas."

Jaune nodded. "Do you have a plan?"

Ironwood tapped his desk. A light on its left side projected a holographic map of Atlas, and the general rotated and zoomed it in to focus on a house that lay not far from the academy's south wing. But to call it a house was a bit of a stretch: it was more of a mansion, though a modest one by that standard. Ironwood highlighted the entrances: a set of double doors leading onto the main street, a garage to the side, a gate leading to a garden of ice-sculptures in the back.

"I'll have the place surrounded as soon as we're in range of the main CCT tower. We'll storm the place the moment we land. We'll find Mr Sand. Don't worry."

/-/

"You might be glad to hear that Ornstein took your sword, he hasn't returned, and now Ironwood's disappeared to Irithyll."

Vengarl glanced up, more than a little blearily. Watts looked in from near the stairs, Lucatiel's sword resting on his shoulder.

"Ornstein?"

"Try to keep up, Vengarl. The man in gold."

"Is that not my sword right there?"

"Sulyvahn's sword, then." Watts stepped closer, twirling the blade carelessly. "This, of course, means I'm likely running out of time."

"You don't seem worried."

"I'm not. Where one door closes, another opens, or so they say. The issue, of course, is that you, and you alone, can tell Ironwood _exactly_ what it is I seek. And if you do that, it'll be more than a door closing. It'll be more like the entire house upping and leaving for greener—better guarded—pastures."

"Get to your point or give me something to eat. I don't care which."

"If I don't get into the painting before he returns, I'll have to start hiding from the authorities. Live life on the lam, as it were. And I can neither take you with me nor leave you behind. Make of that what you will."

Vengarl sighed, then laughed hollowly. "You're going to kill me."

"Unless you give me another choice."

"I'm over a hundred years old, young man. I've had plenty of time to come to terms with my own mortality… though I'll admit I didn't expect to be done in by a moustached creep," Vengarl said. "I'll see you in the next life."

"Very impatient of you. I should have two days, perhaps three: both more time than I need and less time than I want. And, with that in mind, you already know what I will ask of you."

"Priscilla?"

"Aye." He set the sword aside, and, instead, flipped open a pouch, producing vials of dust and beginning to mix them together. "You'll have to forgive me." He turned back towards Vengarl, shaking a vial of powdered dust, a little gold and purple and white swirling around amidst the blue. "Have you ever drowned before?"

Vengarl eyed the vial warily. "No," he said. "What are you doing?"

"Well, you did ask for something to eat. You'll have to forgive me, of course: torture really is Tyrian's field more than mine, but… I do my best."

* * *

 **A bit of a shorter chapter. I want to keep the focus tight, with the arc heading towards its conclusion, and this felt like a natural place to end it. There's a bit of winding down, a bit of plotting, a bit of groundwork for the different identity issues both Solaire and Gil will soon be facing. Solaire first, though. Gil doesn't quite have agency yet** _ **.**_

 **We still don't have a great deal of characterisation on Watts, but I imagine him to be the sort of gentleman who sees many of the more villainous tropes—torture, kidnapping, hostage-taking, that sort of thing—to be below him, preferring to leave it to others.**

 **But he's more than willing to give them a go when he thinks it's necessary.**

 **Speaking of a lack of detail about Watts, I guess I'm just going to have to make up a weapon for him. That's a little annoying, but I get why CRWBY would want to hold that back until it's absolutely necessary to show it (i.e. when Watts gets a fight scene). Wacky, crazy, badass weapons and fighting styles laid the groundwork for the _RWBY_ we have today. Sometimes, you don't want to show off a weapon unless you're _really_ showing it off.**

 **Next chapter, we'll be tackling Team RWBY proper for the first time in a long while. Not sure yet if it'll be a mix of Shion (RWBY) and Catarina (Arty and Ana), or if it'll just be Shion. Depends, again, on how tightly focused the chapter needs to be.**


	59. Chapter 58: Remembrance

" _Don't worry, Ruby—"_

 _"We're not leaving!"_

 _"Do not interfere."_

 _"I will not change my mind."_

 _"—I'm combat ready!"_

Ruby Rose awoke with a start, her breath coming in short, quiet gasps, trailing steam in the cold morning air. Her right hand tingled, as if she'd lain on it in her sleep and cut off circulation. She brought it up, watching for a moment the way the fingers twitched and her wrist locked.

Then she closed it into a loose fist and held it steady with her left hand.

/-/

Catarina, Artorias quickly discovered, was the most miserable place he'd ever visited.

Nestled in the marshes of southern Mistral—and near the coast, no less—it stank of mud, the mangroves' roots growing far from their trunks to coil around the wooden struts that supported the town's buildings and walkways like snakes. Clouds of midges hummed around them, and when they strayed too close his ears twitched in annoyance. In the shadow of an SDC processing and packaging plant, workers—about seventy-five percent faunus, by his estimate—knelt by shallow, disgusting pools, panning through the silt for specks of dust.

It was like stepping back fifty or sixty years in time. The town was lit by torches on poles along the walkways. The guards wore mail and coif, and wielded bows and spears rather than guns. On a hill—a mound, rather, for the word hill denoted some form of stability in the terrain—on the western edge of town lay the ruins of what might have once been a mighty stone keep, now sunk into the mud and muck.

Artorias silently questioned the wisdom of building a castle in a swamp. Though he supposed the terrain made it difficult for the Grimm to approach, at the very least.

The only sign of modern civilisation was the railway, supported on steel struts that plunged deep into the ground in search of a solid foundation. The train docked next to the SDC facility was bulky, armoured, loaded half-full of dust and minerals and twisted mangrove… well, Artorias wasn't confident in calling it timber.

He and Quelana sat on the edge of the landing pad—which was on top of the SDC facility—and took the town in. It was…

It was a truly miserable place.

"I don't understand how anyone would _want_ to live here," he said.

"Doesn't look like most do. But the SDC offer a living."

"A meagre one."

"Hmm. I know a few people who'd take them up on it, though."

"Really? Like whom?"

She raised an eyebrow at him, then shrugged and shook her head. "It's simple work, but no nonsense. Honest, even if your employers aren't. Purely physical labour and a paycheck at the end of the week. And it may be miserable out here, but it's safer than the mines."

"Not everyone here is SDC, though." Artorias pointed out what appeared to be a crude smithy, a general goods store, an apothecary, a guard barracks. There was even an inn, though it looked to have seen better days. "What do you reckon their stake is?"

"Maybe they've got nowhere else to go. Maybe they're trying to get away from something worse. Or maybe they're attached to the place they grew up."

He snorted. "Why?"

"Oh, come now. As if you've never boasted about Vale before for no other reason than having been born there."

"…maybe a little. But a place like this?"

"It has history, clearly," she said, pointing to the ruins of the keep.

"A very rich history indeed," came a voice from behind them. Artorias tilted his head backwards to see a tanned, broad-chested man, clean shaven with a wide nose, receding hairline, and dark bushy eyebrows. A gold ring engraved with the emblem of Mistral shone on the index finger of his right hand. "I can attest to having grown up here, and I'd ask you not to slander Catarina's good name."

Artorias refrained from making a comment about how it was doing plenty of tarnishing all by itself.

"Have we met?" Quelana asked.

"I saw your airship land. It's not often visitors come to Catarina, and I thought I'd see what the hubbub is about. Call me Siegward."

Artorias narrowed his eyes. The name sounded familiar, though it took him a moment to place it. A certain Siegward had featured in some of Professor Port's stories. "Siegward Irons? The combat instructor at Haven?"

"The one and only." He frowned. "Or, rather, the third, and not quite the only. Depends if you count those who've retired from the position." He let out a bark of laughter.

"You're a long way from Mistral."

"Aye." Siegward looked away. "Personal business, you understand. But what brings you to Catarina, Mr…?"

"Hmm? Oh, right. I'm Artorias. This is Quelana," Artorias said.

"Ah. Mr Nym, if I'm not mistaken? You know, I had the pleasure of teaching Miss Nikos once as a guest teacher at Sanctum. Remarkable girl. Your duel was most impressive."

Artorias' mood soured even further at the mention of Pyrrha. Remarkable didn't begin to describe her. "Yeah… thanks. Uh, we're passing through on our way to New Halgot. You wouldn't know the train's schedule, would you?"

"Leaving on the morrow for Mistral. I'll be travelling on it too, but they usually only pick up passengers further down the line, so you've gotta talk to the supervisor if you want passage."

"Thanks for letting us know."

Siegward nodded. "Well, it was nice meeting you, but I'd best be back to it." He offered them a hand each to pull them to their feet; they took it, and he promptly shook their hands, his grasp firm.

"Good to meet you too," Artorias said. "And hey, we'll see you on the train?"

"Aye." His eyes flickered to the sword strapped to Artorias' back. "It'll be good to have you more huntsmen on board."

He said no more, turning on his heel and departing for the stairs leading back down into the building.

"He seemed…"

"Odd?" Quelana offered. "But he did prove my point."

"Perhaps. You were very quiet, though."

"Well, he gave me a bad feeling. I can't really place it. Did you feel it too?"

Artorias shrugged. "It does seem odd he's so far from Haven." They started heading back to the bullhead. It would be refuelled soon, and they ought to thank the pilot. "Shouldn't be that hard to find the supervisor, should it?" Artorias said.

"You can organise that," Ana said. "I've got business in town."

He stopped in his tracks, then turned back to face her. "Really?"

"Is that shocking?"

"What kind of business?"

"Personal business." Her tone conveyed a warning. Artorias rolled his eyes but backed down.

"I'll meet you at the inn, then. Hopefully it's nicer on the inside than the outside."

/-/

"So, the next town is… uh… hmm…" Ruby tried to find their position on the map, but all she really knew was that they were somewhere south—or maybe even still south-west—of Lake Matsu.

"Shion," Blake said. "We're coming up on Shion. I've been there before."

"Is it nice?" Yang asked.

Blake shrugged. "Not really. But then, I spent most of my time protesting. I didn't really see its good side, if it has one."

"What were you protesting?" Weiss asked.

Blake pursed her lips. "I don't remember. It was a long time ago. A lumber mill, I think. Bad health and safety standards. I think it had an airship dock, though. Should be the end of the road, more or less."

"That's good," Weiss said.

"I told you, Weiss-cream, trekking across Anima in heels was a poor decision."

"They're combat… uh, boots!" Ruby objected.

Yang snorted. "Yeah, sure, and my name's Yin."

Weiss sighed. "Thank you, Ruby, but that's not necessary. What I mean is that it'll be nice to sleep in a proper bed again."

"Can't argue with that." Blake stretched her arms over her head, and Ruby heard her back _pop!_

"And a hot shower, too," Ruby said.

Weiss hummed her agreement. "I swear, sometimes it feels like there's dirt _behind_ my eyes. How would it even get there?" A second later, she eyed Yang warily. "Don't say it."

"Hmm?"

"I… nevermind."

"Oh. Dirt-brain?" She shrugged. "It's low-hanging fruit. Not very witty."

"Are you alright, Yang?"

"Yeah. Just distracted. Thinking."

"That doesn't sound like you," Ruby said.

Yang pulled Ruby close to her side and squeezed tightly while tussling the shorter girl's hair. "Shush, you."

"Yaaaaaang!"

"Yang, stop," Weiss said.

"Are you going to keep talking smack?" Yang asked. "Well? Are you?" The hair tussling turned into something more resembling a noogy.

"Yang!"

Yang stopped. She and Ruby turned their eyes back to the road, then stopped in their tracks.

"Hot showers might have to wait," Blake said.

Shion was empty.

/-/

The SDC supervisor, a man whose badge named him as one Mr Whittaker, stared Artorias down from across the desk.

"You want passage."

"Yes."

"On my train."

"Is it really yours? Or is it the company's?"

"As long as it's here, it's mine." Whittaker took a long drag from his cigar. Artorias scrunched up his nose. The smell was worse than the marshes outside.

"We're willing to pay, of course."

"I'd have to be willing to take you first."

Artorias raised an eyebrow. "Surely there's room for two. Siegward said they usually take on passengers, just further down the line. And you're taking him, aren't you?"

"Siegward is, uh… well, he's important, and he's got important stuff. And he aint an animal."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Plenty of other routes through to Mistral from the coast. Most of you dogs coming in from Menagerie come by boat anyhow, and further west. What're you so special for with the airship?"

"I'm a huntsman."

"Think I was born yesterday? Half the folk tryin' to escape your shithole island have a forged licence."

"I fought in the Vytal Tournament, if that rings any bells."

"Course you did, and I'm Nicholas Schnee. If the CCT wasn't broken I'd run you through the database. Probably show you're Fang anyhow."

 _"Excuse_ me?"

"But, if not, you could always work here. Nothing for you in the cities."

Artorias scowled and repressed the urge to break the man's nose. "I'm not here for advice, and I'm not here for a job. I'm here for passage. How much do you want?"

"For two of you? Is your friend an animal too?"

Artorias grimaced. "We're both faunus."

"Two hundred. And you can't ride in the passenger cabins. Reserved for normal folk."

"That's ridiculous. Two hundred, just for a place in the hold?"

"Lot of people hop on around Kuchinashi. It's their space, not yours. But I'm a reasonable man. I'll do you one-fifty."

"That's what you call reasonable?"

"Aye."

"Gods above." Artorias pinched the bridge of his nose and clenched his eyes shut. "I'll pay two-fifty hundred for a passenger cabin. How about that?"

"For the cleaning costs afterwards? That'd be a bit of a loss."

"Do you think I'm just shedding hair all day, every day? Is that what you think?"

"Don't you?"

"I'm not even going to answer that," Artorias muttered. "Two-seventy-five. Final offer." It was an extortionate price, still, but he refused to be treated like an animal.

Maybe he didn't give Ilia _quite_ enough credit.

Whittaker pursed his thin lips, mulling it over, then took another long drag of his cigar. "Three hundred and you've got a deal."

Artorias grimaced. "Fine." He slammed the money down on the desk, causing the metal legs to shudder, then stood.

"Oh, no, sit back down. I'll need you to sign some things. You could still be a liability, you understand. Just due process."

Artorias was very, _very_ tempted to break the man's nose.

/-/

Shion was abandoned.

Yang walked down the main street, eyes wide. Unmoving bodies were strewn about the street. Some houses had been reduced to rubble, and those that stood bore gashes in their walls, shattered windows, and broken-down doors. A plume of smoke rose from somewhere deeper in the town. Street lamps were bent and broken out of shape, pulled out of the ground.

"There could be survivors," Ruby said.

Yang crouched down next to the body of a woman who couldn't have been much older than her, slumped against a wall, and checked for a pulse. Nothing. She turned the body over to find her wounds.

There was a gash running across her back. The cut was too clean for Grimm.

 _"Raven's in Anima. Somewhere,"_ Qrow had told her, in the days after the fall, when Ruby was still unconscious in her bed. _"Gods know Tai won't tell you anything, but you have a right to know. I can't recommend you go looking for her, though."_

 _"Why not?"_

 _"Because the crowd she runs with? They're bad news, Firecracker. Bandits, hustlers, thieves, murderers. She'd be more likely to slit your throat than give you a hug and a kiss."_

 _"But she_ did _save me."_

 _"That's her rule."_ Qrow had already turned to leave, but had stopped in the doorway, and patted the pocket where he kept his flask. _"She'll save you once. But only once."_

Yang shuddered.

"Here!" Blake called. "There's a huntsman!"

Yang closed the woman's eyes, then rushed over to Blake. The huntsman she'd found was badly wounded, blood trailing from his mouth and from a gunshot wound just below the breastplate, but he was alive.

"What happened here?" Ruby asked.

He tried to speak, but instead coughed up blood. His second attempt was more fruitful. "Bandits. A whole tribe. Then, with all the panic—"

He wheezed for air, his chest heaving as he coughed again.

"Grimm?" Weiss asked.

The huntsman nodded. His breathing settled a little.

Yang stepped past him, her hands clasped behind her head. She couldn't _know_ for sure who'd done this… but she suspected.

Behind her, she heard Weiss and Ruby discussing plans to move the huntsman, get him help. But Yang had seen him. He had a day at most.

To think she'd been spawned by someone capable of such… cruelty. It was strange to finally have an _idea_ of who her birth mother really was, after so much time spent wondering, only to see her work—or the work of people like her—first hand.

She pinched the bridge of her nose and clenched her eyes shut. It hurt. A little. For all she could say—for all she _knew_ —that Summer was her real mother, the woman Qrow called Raven was still a part of her.

"He's gone," Blake said.

Yang looked back to the group. Ruby and Weiss were speechless. "We should bury him," Yang said quietly. It was the least they could do.

"No. We need to move on," Blake said. "It's not safe here."

Yang frowned. " _Somebody_ has to bury them."

"We don't owe it to them. But we _have_ to keep moving."

"So we'll leave them for the carrion?" Yang felt her eyes flash red for a brief moment and she closed them, turning her face away. "No. You're… you're right. We should keep moving."

/-/

To call the Inner Onion inn 'run-down' didn't quite do its dilapidated state justice. The green paint was peeling. It was mostly lit by torches set in the walls, save for a single hanging light-dust fixture that was constantly flickering. There was no chimney, yet in the back a fire pit roared in the kitchen, coating the room in a thick layer of smoke and sending yet more billowing out the open back door.

Artorias spotted Siegward drinking at a table near the bar, deep in conversation with a man with a mullet and a missing tooth. After another glance around the room, he spotted Quelana, hood up, sitting at a booth in the corner nursing a drink, a picked-clean plate of mudcrab in front of her.

Artorias sat next to her. "How'd it go?"

"Got a room upstairs. Did you get us a ride?"

"I was talking about your 'business'," Artorias said.

He saw the corners of her mouth twitch downwards past her cowl. "Poorly," she said.

"Want to talk about it?"

"Not really." She took a sip of her whiskey, then grimaced and coughed.

"That bad?"

"Look, I can literally ignore any level of heat, but I'm still pretty sure it's burning a hole through my stomach. Cheap, though."

"Does your semblance make you acid-resistant?"

She shrugged. "No idea, but you get what I mean."

"We should test that some time."

"Nah. Did you get us on the train?"

"Yeah. Supervisor was… rude. But we've got our ride."

"What happened?"

"Well, he thinks we're both animals, so that's nice."

"Oh, fun." Quelana waved to a barmaid as she passed. "Another drink, please."

"Going for round two? Really?"

"You think this is round two? Alone in the corner, gorged on crab, drinking the worst whiskey on Remnant?"

Artorias shrugged. "Well, you're not alone now. Was the crab any good?"

"Lords, yes. Might be the only good thing in this stupid town."

"Wow. You were defending this place before, remember?"

"I'll defend the crab. Nothing else." She downed her drink, gagged, then accepted the next.

"Ana, what's going on?"

"It's nothing."

"It's very clearly not."

She sighed. Her breath stank of alcohol. "How did _we_ ever work?"

He raised an eyebrow. "That's not what's really got you upset, is it?"

"Did I ever tell you why Mum left?"

"No."

Her shoulders slumped, and she raised her glass.

Artorias held her arm to stop her, gently but firmly. "How many _have_ you had?"

"Six, now."

"I was guessing three."

She snorted. "I dated _you_ for a year and a half. Think I can't handle my booze?"

Artorias took the drink from her hand, sniffed it, gagged, shrugged, then downed it. "Don't order another. This is me cutting you off." He put the empty glass down on the table. "You know you can talk to me, right?"

"Oh, shut up."

Artorias grimaced. "There we go. That's the sound of six drinks. I know you don't mean it, so we'll move on, shall we?"

She pursed her lips. "Fine," she said, producing a folded-up letter from her sleeve. She passed it to him.

 _Dear sisters,_

 _It's been a while._

 _I'm writing to inform you that we have a new half-brother. His name is Quentin. Mum died in childbirth._

 _From Quelara_

"Lara's my older sister. Yeah, Mum has an issue with names."

"Oh gods, Ana. I'm so sorry."

"I'm a big sister again. Yay," she said dryly. She raised a hand to signal to the barmaid. Artorias almost stopped her, then pinched the bridge of his nose and raised his own hand.

"Quelaag forwarded it to me. It arrived on our last night in Menagerie. Going from Ilia to _that_ news was a hell of a long way to fall." Two more drinks were placed in front of them.

Artorias sighed. "You know, after… well, after coming back from Beacon, I was planning on cutting back on drinking a bit. But this really is your last one, okay?"

"Fine, fine."

He raised his glass. "To your mum?"

"Oh, alright." Ana sipped at her drink. "Y'know why she _sucked_? Sometimes, it was like… she cared. But she never cared enough to be a half-decent parent, or enough to stick around after…" Ana pursed her lips. "But she did care." She took another sip, coughing as it went down.

Artorias drank too and had much the same reaction. "You're not wrong to miss her," he said. "But I know it hurts. And I'm sorry."

"It's, uh… I'm fine."

"I didn't even know you _had_ an older sister."

"Well, we had a falling out. I want to reconnect with them—with her. And I want to meet my brother. But there's no return address on the letter. All I know is they moved somewhere in Anima."

"And you thought they'd be in a place like Catarina?"

She scowled. "So I miss my family. So I want to see my little brother. Sue me."

"Okay, my bad for coming across as a little sarcastic, but—"

"You're not allowed to act all high and mighty about _my_ family being… being so broken when you… when you—"

"Ana, you know I would do anything for you. Please don't be upset with me."

She grit her teeth and ran a hand through her hair, letting her hood fall backwards. She wouldn't meet his eyes. "Fuck," she muttered.

"Look, if you'd asked, I'd have helped you look for them. You checked the census?"

"And asked the barkeep, in case they just passed through."

"Then we'll do that everywhere we go, alright?"

Quelana nodded, then let out a short bark of laughter. "How _did_ we ever work?"

"Seems like a really weird time to ask."

"Ugh. Maybe. Sometimes I hate that I don't hate you."

Artorias opened his mouth to speak, then paused, shrugged, and took a sip of his drink. He really didn't know how to respond to that.

A smile crossed her features for a second, then she tugged her hood back up. "Thanks, Arty." She downed the rest of her drink then stood. "I'm going to get some sleep. Don't be too far behind. If I barf—"

"I'll hold your hair back."

/-/

" _A word of advice, Red—"_

 _"Mercury?"_

 _"She doesn't stand a chance!"_

 _"You. Let me borrow that. I need it."_

 _"—you can't save everyone."_

Ruby woke up.

The nightmares were becoming familiar, now. She didn't bolt upright, rather just opened her eyes dully, tiredly. The air was cold, and the sky was still dark.

She closed her eyes again.

 _"Thank you, Blake."_

The voice she heard was deep. Rich. And very much _real_.

Ruby sat up this time. The fire had died. Weiss and Yang slept soundly, but Blake was gone—as was her weapon.

 _"Never pull it towards you. Let it glide smoothly. Form the basic shape first, then the details."_

Ruby stood and followed the voice.

 _"I like rounding them out. But you don't have to. Take it slow. No need to accidentally hurt your aura."_

She came across a clearing, and saw Blake sitting on the grass near the other end. Across from her, resting on a stump, was her scroll, playing a recording of Gough, his eyes covered by a scrap of cloth. Blake had her legs crossed, and in her hands, she dragged a pocket knife against a small segment of a tree branch.

 _"I used to like darker woods, but it doesn't matter anymore."_ Gough sighed. _"I tried to teach my team this once. Artorias gave up the quickest."_

"No surprise there," Blake murmured, her voice mixing with the recording.

 _"I want you to promise me you'll never give up on your team. They'd do the same for you. And when you've got this down, you can teach it to them, too."_

Blake said nothing, only scowled and tossed the wood aside. Gambol Shroud flashed upwards, cutting a fresh—if crude—dowel from the tree above her.

She picked up the knife and went back to whittling.

/-/

 **We're back in Atlas next time, and it's got** _ **the**_ **longest-planned scene in the entire fic. The draft for this scene was last edited March 10th, 2017. It's been a long time coming.**

 **Obviously I'll be giving it another editing pass. Some of the context around the scene has changed since then, as has my writing style. I just wanted to build a little hype.**

 **There's a lot to talk about in this chapter to the point where I can't narrow it down to something I** _ **really**_ **want to discuss in this AN, and I can't talk about all of it without bloating the word count. So, if you've got any questions—whether about the creative process or the direction the story's taking—as always you can feel free to send me a PM or drop a review, and I'll either get back to you in a PM or an AN.**


	60. Chapter 59: Destruction

It was strange that Doctor Watts' residence seemed a _normal_ , if a little large, house.

Jaune stepped through the kitchen, Crocea Mors at the ready. Nora and Ren were on the second floor, while he and the general were searching the ground.

"Vengarl!" Jaune called.

The kitchen was spotless. The library-cross-study was clear. The living room was empty. The guest bedroom was immaculate. The second—mothballed—living room (because of course Watts was wealthy enough to have a second living room and not use it) was also clear.

But as Jaune left, cursing, to find Ren and Nora, the general called him back.

"Look." General Ironwood stomped his foot on the rug beneath the coffee table.

"I'm not sure what I'm looking at."

"Everything here is dusty. But not the rug. And look at the edge of the table. Handprints."

It took Jaune a moment to process what he was saying: both the rug and the table had been moved, recently, and often.

He kicked the table over. The general dragged the rug aside to reveal a trapdoor.

"This'd better not lead to some more damn siege tunnels," Jaune muttered. He leaned down and opened the trapdoor. Stairs led downwards into darkness. "Vengarl?" he called.

The silence from below sent a chill down Jaune's spine. He steeled himself and followed the general down.

It was dark beneath the house. Jaune's scroll was attached to the top of his shield, and he activated the torch function in search of a light switch. He found it next to the stairs.

The hanging light fixture flickered. On a table in the corner was a stack of files, and leaning against it a familiar sword with its handguard bent parallel to the blade.

The back wall was separated by a set of bars. Vengarl lay within, unmoving.

"Vengarl!" Jaune rushed forwards, Crocea Mors swinging towards the lock on the gate. The force of his aura behind the blow sheared straight through the bars.

The old man did not react. His eyes were closed. Jaune threw his sword aside and knelt next to him, pressing his ear to his chest in search of a heartbeat.

 _Thump… thump. Thump… thump._

It was slow. Weak. Quiet. But present.

"I'm alive," Vengarl whispered. "I'm still here."

"Where's Watts?" the general stepped in behind Jaune.

"It's too late," Vengarl wheezed out. "I… I can't move." He coughed up thin blood. "I told him… everything. Everything I know. The painting, Jaune. Stop him. Before he reaches it."

"The painting?"

General Ironwood's eyes widened. "It's in a vault under the school—"

 _"Another_ one?"

"He's expressed interest in it before. What is it hiding, Vengarl?"

"If he reaches the painting, you cannot follow. He has the key." Vengarl gasped, his breath raspy. "It's a world, James. A painted world. And Destruction lies within."

"Mr Arc—"

"Go," Jaune said. "We'll get him to a hospital."

/-/

Solaire removed his watch, tossed it on the bedside table and fell backwards onto his bed in the dorms of Atlas Academy. It was good to be home.

It really was the closest thing to home he had.

"How do you feel?" Hawkwood asked.

"Like hell," Solaire said. He felt a little better now though. This room was familiar. It was _his_.

Well, his team's. He didn't know where Ricard or Rendal were. Probably at whatever _actual_ home they had.

When he closed his eyes, he saw different rooms. A palace and a war tent and blue satin sheets and an anvil and—

"Yeah. You've not been sleeping. This isn't about Lily Fowler, is it?" Hawkwood asked.

"Leave me alone, Hawkwood."

"I'd love nothing more, but I'm supposed to get you back to a decent state of mind. Winter's orders. Real taskmaster, she is, even half-dead. Did I tell you how she treated her—"

The unmistakable sound of an explosion sounded from the CCT tower.

Solaire sighed.

"We should probably do something about that," he said.

"Most likely."

Solaire reached for his watch.

/-/

"Hey."

"Yeah?"

"Do you ever wonder why we're here?"

"It's one of life's great mysteries, isn't it? Why _are_ we here? I mean, are we the product of some cosmic coincidence? Or is there really a god, watching everything, you know? With a plan for us and stuff. I dunno man. But it keeps me up at night."

Cooper Smokes, Atlesian soldier, looked to his partner, Lennie Teal. "What? I mean, why are we _here_ guarding this elevator? It's _just_ an elevator. If we were to guard a specific thing, we'd be on a specific floor, you know? What was all that about gods, anyway?"

Lennie glanced around the lobby of the CCT tower. With the blizzard having cleared abruptly a few days prior, people had emerged from their homes, and the lobby was buzzing with people.

"Maybe it's just added security. You know, with all these extra folk."

"We've been posted here since the start of winter, Lennie."

Lennie shrugged. "I dunno."

A tall, lanky man with a well-groomed moustache approached the elevator. In his left hand, he held a handkerchief.

"Gentlemen," greeted the newcomer, "if I may, I need to tinker with the elevator overrides." He gestured to a control panel on the wall next to Cooper.

"Why would that be?" Cooper asked. "We should have been informed of any maintenance."

"My reasons are far above your paygrade, I assure you." The man stopped a few steps away from them. "Come now. I'm Doctor Arthur Watts."

Cooper shared a look with his partner, and his hands tightened on his gun. Arthur Watts? He was pretty high on the watchlist. "Are you aware you're wanted for questioning, Mr Watts?"

"Oh, really. It's _doctor._ " Watts stepped forwards, and as Cooper and Lennie raised their weapons, his right hand emerged from inside his coat, tossing a canister towards them.

"Grenade!"

Gas exploded outwards. Cooper's aura held it back for a second, but he was a soldier, not a huntsman, and not a particularly good one at that: it expanded in his lungs, and he clawed at his throat as it burned its way down, smothering his aura.

The last thing he saw was the doctor, kerchief held over his mouth and nose, attaching his scroll to the control panel. The screen flashed with the image of a black queen on red.

/-/

Jaune cradled Vengarl's head in his lap. "We can get you to a hospital."

"No," Vengarl wheezed. "Can't move. Mouth feels like cotton."

"We're not leaving you," Ren said. "Why can't you move? Is your back broken?"

"Dust. Injections, feeding." He coughed. "Bastard knew his dust."

"Dust poisoning isn't too uncommon," Ren said. "You can still recover."

"Poisoning… mild term. Dying," Vengarl said. "When I'm gone… throw my body in Halgot Bay. With Pharis. Please."

"Listen here, _sir_ ," Nora said. "If you die, I'm following you to hell to kill you myself."

"Why are you assuming he's going to hell?" Jaune said.

Vengarl laughed, though it was hard to distinguish from a cough. "Sorry," he wheezed. "I… wanted it to end. It hurt so much. Still hurts."

"What's going to happen, sir?" Jaune asked. "If he gets… 'destruction', what will happen?"

"Beacon again. But here. I'd guess. It's not for him. For his master. Salem." Vengarl tried to keep speaking, but a fit of coughing overtook him. The only word that came out was _sir._

"You're going to be okay."

"Dying. End it. Please."

Jaune closed his eyes and tilted his head away. He could feel the tears coming on, but grit his teeth, doing his best to keep them at bay. "You said you'd teach me, sir. Teach me to be strong. Like Pyrrha."

"Joseph would be… proud."

"I don't give a—I don't _care_ , sir! I never knew him. But I knew Pyrrha, and so did you. And I—we all—have to be more. For her sake."

Vengarl's breathing turned from raspy and wheezy to quiet. Peaceful. He breathed deeply. "I miss her," he said.

"And I'll miss you, sir. But not yet. We're not _ready_ yet."

"He'd be proud anyway…"

"Shut up and _live!"_

Aura streamed from his fingers, pale gold, near white.

And aura the colour of rust pulsed faintly from the old man's skin to meet it.

/-/

It should have been no surprise that the Painted World looked just like the painting that contained it.

Doctor Arthur Watts held the rope of the suspension bridge for balance, dusted the light snowfall off his shoulders, then followed the path up to the chapel. Before the doors was a courtyard, and, standing in the snow, a woman with pale skin and pale hair, features delicate as a porcelain doll. Her white tail cleared the snow behind her as she turned to face him.

Salem had given him her name. Priscilla.

"Who are you?" she asked.

Salem had told him that the girl was more than capable of killing him, and although when they'd last parted they'd been on good terms, Ozpin had had many, many years to sway him to her cause. Salem had told him to be careful.

Vengarl had told him of two journeys to the Painted World. The first had been Lucatiel's visit long ago. When the poor girl had returned, apparently she'd been a gibbering wreck.

By Vengarl's account, that had been Ozpin's fault. And Salem had said of Priscilla that she was kind at heart. Lucatiel's affliction likely hadn't done anything to endear the old man to her.

And of Ozpin's own visit, far more recently…

Vengarl had said Ozpin had returned a tired, broken mess.

So, signs pointed to their relationship having not improved at all over the past however many millennia. Idly, Watts considered that Ozpin was really rather terrible at the whole interpersonal relations 'thing'.

"Salem sent me," he said simply.

"What is your name? And how have you come to be here?"

"I am Arthur Watts," he said. "The doll brought me." He held it out to her, and she took it gingerly.

"Where did you find it?"

"It was taken from Ozpin."

"Oh?" She raised an eyebrow. "They're still feuding, are they?"

"Very much so. Might I ask: do you have a stake in it?"

She frowned. "I will not leave with you, if that is what you are asking."

"I would not presume—"

"Why has she sent you, Mr Watts?" she asked.

He sighed. "Perhaps I should have clarified: I am a _doctor_."

"Why has she sent you, Mr Doctor?"

"That's… good enough. She wants the relic."

"The last time Salem wielded Destruction, my father died—permanently. What would she do with it now?"

"Well, firstly, you have my sympathies."

"What would I do with them? I do not want them, Mr Doctor."

"Secondly, I imagine she will use it to do much the same to Ozpin."

"You imagine," Priscilla said. She placed the doll on the low stone wall surrounding the chapel and began to pace. "But you do not know."

"She hasn't said," Arthur admitted. "I know that she seeks the other relics too. We already have—"

"Does she now?" Priscilla laughed. "Have you heard of a girl named Lucatiel, Mr Doctor?"

"I have, in fact. Why?"

"Perhaps you should fear her fate. But I will not meddle with the fates of mortals. That is their game." She picked up the doll again and peered at it closely, then hugged it to her chest. "The relic lies beneath the chapel. Do not tarry long. You do not belong here."

/-/

James Ironwood ran.

He did not know what 'Destruction' was, exactly. But he knew it didn't sound good, and that he didn't want Arthur Watts to have it.

His feet pounded in the streets, kicking up a dusty spray of snow in his wake. "Move!" he roared, sidestepping pedestrians. He ended up pulling out his gun. That cleared the road quickly, though he didn't aim or shoot it. But people recognised the emergency it represented.

He reached the CCT tower in record time, barrelling through the doorway.

Bodies were strewn throughout the lobby, unmoving, their eyes red in their sockets. The only men standing were Solaire and Hawkwood, who turned as he entered. "General?"

Cursing, James rushed to the elevator, pulling open the control panel and punching in a seven-digit code. The elevator arrived from below. "Both of you, with me."

"What's going on?"

"Arthur Watts is going on. We don't have much time." He pressed the buttons for three different floors, and the elevator began to descend, deep beneath the academy. He checked the chamber of his gun to make absolutely sure it was loaded.

"Sir—"

The elevator opened into a short, dark corridor. "No time," Ironwood repeated, turning on the torch function on his scroll.

The end of the corridor opened onto a chamber, empty save for the painting. An heirloom of Atlas, valuable beyond measure—but for what reason, Ironwood had never understood. _Keep it safe_ , Ozpin had told him once. _Trust me, James._

Beyond that, the room was empty.

He was too late.

He cursed, his voice echoing all the way back to the elevator.

"What is this, General?" Hawkwood asked.

"I…" James couldn't admit that he didn't even know, exactly. All he knew was that it was _important_. James touched his hand to the canvas. It felt cold, even through his glove. "Watts is inside this painting."

"What, like a secret compartment?" Hawkwood reached for it, running his hand over it.

"No. Like magic."

"Huh?"

"This is the Painted World of Ariamis," Solaire said quietly.

He too touched his hand to the painting.

Where his hand touched it, the painting shimmered and swirled, dragging him inwards like a whirlpool.

Then, with a flash of light, Solaire disappeared.

"…okay," Hawkwood said. "I believe you."

/-/

The first thing Solaire noticed when he pushed himself upright on the suspension bridge was that the moon was full.

And not in the way the shattered moon could be full, when its orbit presented its whole, unbroken side to Remnant. This face of the cold white light was unmarred by craters, unblemished, pure white in the sky.

A winding path wound up the mountain ahead to the chapel.

He followed it. His strides felt short. Or long. He couldn't tell. They just didn't seem _right._

Through the open doors of the chapel, he saw a woman sitting in a chair, surrounded by paintings. Garbed in white furs, scales shimmered on her skin, and a fluffy white tail extended behind her. She was running her hands over a canvas, her open palms staining it with colour. It formed the face of a girl with blonde hair and a scar over her left eye.

She looked up as she entered.

"And who are you?" she asked.

"Where am I? And who are _you_?"

"This is my home. Courtesy would dictate you answer me. But you may call me Priscilla."

"I'm Solaire."

"I see." She swivelled on her chair to face him better. "Have you misstepped into this world?"

"No, I was… following someone." Solaire glanced around, confused. "But, really, where _are_ we? I was under the CCT, and—"

"Misfallen, then?"

"We're _inside_ the painting?"

She nodded, then stood and stepped towards him. Her left hand reached for a weapon leaning against an archway; a scythe of dark metal, wickedly sharp. She paused as she touched it.

"You're clearly not Ozpin. Who are you?"

"What? He's dead." Solaire furrowed his brow. "I'm Solaire. Can we just take a step back and talk about this whole painting thing?"

"The Painted World of Ariamis?"

"…right." He'd said it just before, hadn't he? The Painted World. He already knew, somehow.

He turned around, looking out the chapel doors, down the path to the bridge, and tried to recall the details of the painting. Bridge, chapel, snow-dusted trees, light snowfall. It was all there.

This was _weird._

He bit his lip and turned back, only to find that the woman—and her scythe—had disappeared.

"Hello?" he called. There was no response, save for the word echoing back up from the tunnel that led below the mountain. With nowhere else to go, he descended.

Statues of knights watched him pass, the dark slits in their horned helms silently judging him. Gossamer curtains covered dark windows set in the wall, waving softly in a breeze he could not feel. The open arch at the end led to a large chamber, itself dark save for a large window in the back wall that offered little light. Doctor Watts stood before a raised platform—a casket, Solaire realised, already open—with his scroll in one hand to illuminate it.

The doctor reached into the casket, pulling forth a weapon, a sword with a blade of grey metal that absorbed what little light shone into the room. He leaned the weapon against the side of the tomb, then pulled the lid of the casket shut and turned to face Solaire as he entered the chamber.

"What are you doing here?" Watts asked.

"I followed you. Obviously."

Watts narrowed his eyes. "Obviously…" He shook his head. "Are you going to stop me?"

"What is that?"

"Destruction made manifest." The doctor strapped the blade into a sheath across his back. "Step aside, boy. I've no quarrel with you."

"Did you have a quarrel with the people you killed?"

Watts raised an eyebrow. "Whom?"

"In the CCT!"

"Oh, that." He waved a dismissive hand. "An unfortunate necessity. Stand down, and you won't be harmed."

Solaire snarled, raised his shield, and charged, cocking his arm back to bash Watts with its rim. Watts sidestepped, reaching into his coat and producing a grenade. Solaire brought his shield back into a guard position to protect himself from the blast, but only a noxious yellow gas burst outwards. He took a deep breath in the moments before it reached him—he felt the few particles that made their way into his lungs battle with his aura for a moment before being expelled.

He brought out his shock-dust embroidered handkerchief and held it over his mouth and nose, then quietly stepped backwards, seeking the stairs that led back to the passage and the chapel. He couldn't see much. Watts was probably trying to slip past and out.

Vague forms shifted in the smoke. Solaire saw the smoke billow near the ground, as if from a footfall, not a metre to his left, and turned towards it, shield raised. His left foot caught on the bottom stair, and he planted his right firmly against the ground for balance, the step ringing dully in the dark.

A loud _crack_ sounded to his right. The haze parted, coiling and hissing in the path of two bullets. The first clipped the bottom of Solaire's shield. The second slipped beneath it and slammed into his side with enough force to crack a rib, even through his aura.

Solaire staggered back, growling in pain, barely having the presence of mind to keep his talisman to his face to protect him from the gas. He heard the _click_ of the gun being reloaded, and ducked low, getting as much of his profile behind his shield as he could.

 _Crack!_

The next shot slammed into his shield. Solaire's boots slid backwards an inch on the stone, but he was unharmed. He pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the pain in his chest, and pursued Watts.

The haze was beginning to dissipate, and he saw the doctor's form looming in the smoke, bringing his gun back up for another shot—but Solaire reached him first.

A solid bash to the jaw sent Watts reeling, and Solaire pushed into his guard, trying to shove him to the ground. But Watts twisted, dropping his two-barrelled gun and drawing the sword, bringing it sweeping around from the side. Solaire backstepped from the first swipe, then raised his shield to block the second—

The metal split apart from the blow. Solaire's sundered shield fell to the ground.

Solaire staggered away, shocked, warding the doctor away by raising his talisman and sending a lightning bolt his way. The flash of light illuminated the room in full—atop the tomb he saw a bouquet, a hat, a spear embedded in the wall—then Watts batted the bolt aside effortlessly, and the room fell dark again.

Solaire, for his part, had inhaled a good portion of what remained of the smoke, and fell to the ground, wheezing as his aura tried to expel it from his lungs.

Watts stalked closer.

Solaire needed a weapon. He channelled his aura into his talisman to produce a burst of light, blinding Watts for a precious moment. The doctor staggered back, clutching at his eyes, and Solaire ran for the casket, desperately reaching across it for the spear—

A hand grasped his collar from behind, wrenching him backwards and tossing him to the ground.

"A bag of tricks won't save you," Watts snarled, standing over him. His sword crackled with lightning— _Solaire's_ lightning, it seemed, as though the blade had absorbed and reflected the attack. He raised his sword like an executioner's axe.

Solaire reached futilely for the weapon behind him.

Watts brought the sword down.

But then it came to him. It crackled gold, a spear with a broad, flat head, jolting from the wall to his hand. Why or how it had answered him were beyond his understanding, but he was glad that it did.

Metal clashed against metal, echoing against the stone walls, sword against swordspear. Solaire shoved the man away and rose to his feet. He no longer saw Watts, but instead an old man, bearded and crowned, hatred and greed and envy etched into the lines of his face. The paved stone beneath his feet felt as sand.

The swordspear—or even a regular spear—was not a weapon Solaire had ever trained in, but it felt natural in his hands. Left, right, stepping forwards as he went, wrist loose but grip tight, he pushed the crowned king backwards across the dunes—across the _room_ —his assault relentless, his technique flawless.

But still, his aura was low. His breathing was laboured from the residual gas. The king's wariness waned, and he grew bolder in his counterattacks. The tide shifted, and Solaire began to retreat.

But then, all of a sudden, the king stopped mid-swing. His eyes were wide, and his nostrils flared. He swallowed nervously.

The air shimmered behind him. Shadows shifted, and the woman from earlier made herself—and the scythe she held—visible. The hot sun overhead faded away. Solaire found himself again in a dark tomb beneath a mountain. Watts, not a king, stood before him.

"You were not so hostile before, ma'am," he said cautiously.

"Drop the weapon," she commanded.

He rolled his eyes and _moved_.

His grip on the sword reversed, and he made to plunge it behind him. Solaire rushed forwards to stop him.

He didn't have to.

Priscilla's scythe moved faster. Watts' grip loosened, and the sword fell from his hands. He crumpled to the ground, and his head rolled towards the casket.

"Are you certain Solaire is your name?" the woman asked, wiping the blade of her scythe clean even as the doctor convulsed on the floor.

"I, uh…"

"You need not fear me."

"He's dead," Solaire said dumbly.

"Yes. He is drawn to the seal. But it is not the end for him."

"The seal?"

"You, on the other hand, would have died, yes. Forever. That… I could not abide."

"…why?"

Priscilla's brow furrowed. "The issue with reincarnation is that those who are not awakened to their previous selves at a young age develop new identities that are not always compatible with their old ones. I do not wish to see that again. Ask what questions you will, but I should say no more than what you remember for yourself."

"Reincarnation?"

"Yes." Her tail flicked back and forth across the ground. "Our aura protects us, and our equipment. Wield a weapon for long enough—for centuries, if you must—and it becomes infused with the echoes of your soul. There are only a handful of souls that could have entered the painting without the key, and only one to whom that weapon would have answered."

Solaire looked down at the swordspear in his hand, then to the sword that had fallen from Watts' grip. He closed his eyes, and felt the warmth of the sun for a moment on the back of his neck.

"Who was my soul to you?" he asked.

"It's important to understand, Mr Solaire, that the soul is the self. The body is the shell."

"Then… who was I to you? Who was I in the desert? And… who was that man in the crown?"

"Who you are to me is for us to decide here and now. But that man was my father."

"I didn't ask who I _am_ to you. Who _was_ I to you, little Yorshka?"

The named slipped out unbidden. Solaire didn't know where it came from, but he could _hear_ it, a memory echoing in his skull that wasn't quite his own: _You don't have to be alone, little Yorshka._

And another, pounding like an eternal headache: _I want to exist. I want to exist. I want to exist. I want to—_

 _I want it to end, Priscilla. But I don't want to burden another._

Solaire felt dizzy. He sat, clutching at his head.

"Who am _I_?" he asked.

"I don't know," Priscilla admitted. She sat on the bottom stair leading into the chamber and crossed one leg over the other. "People change. That is natural. But who do you think I am?"

"You're—"

 _Priscilla._

 _Little Yorshka._

 _Sister._

 _I had a brother I had a brother I had a brother I had a brother I had—_

"—my sister?"

"And what does that make you?" Priscilla asked.

 _Brother brother brother brother brother brother—_

"I've never had a family before."

"But I know you won't stay, Solaire," Priscilla said, and it took him a moment to remember that that was _his_ name. "You never have."

 _I deserve this I deserve this I deserve this I DESERVE—_

Solaire grimaced and looked away. "Do the voices ever just… shut up?"

"Voices? Those are memories. They are who you were."

"Do they go away?"

"Only if you _give_ them a voice. And that may do you more harm than good."

His eyes were drawn again to the swordspear, then to the hat and the bouquet atop the casket, then down to his soapstone, hanging around his neck.

That was his voice. Optimistic. Friendly. Helpful. So helpful, in fact, that Hawkwood had once said he was more likely to assist with a suicide rather than talk someone out of it.

…that wasn't entirely true, but he understood the point.

But didn't all _these_ voices—

 _I want to exist._

—deserve to be heard too?

"I'd like to try," Solaire said.

Priscilla stood. "Then tell me: who are we to each other?"

Solaire closed his eyes and this time let the memories speak to him.

He saw a little girl, maybe not even a year old, swaddled in sheets and looking up at him with bright eyes from her crib.

"You could come with me," he said. "There's so much _more_ —"

He wanted to call her little Yorshka, because that was the pet name his memories gave him. That was who she'd been to him. His baby sister. His little Yorshka.

…despite looking about half a decade older than he was.

But it felt strange, still. He knew her, but he didn't _know_ her.

"I want to show you Forever Fall. And Mistral, and Mantle, and—"

"You always did like to travel." She smiled and reached down for the sword on the ground, then stood. "You won't be taking this, will you?"

Solaire shook his head. "You don't have to stay."

Priscilla sighed. "But I want to." She laid the sword atop the casket, then picked up the long-brimmed hat. "Take this with you."

"What is it?"

 _I want to exist._

"It makes me too sad to keep it here." She also produced a little poppet from her sleeve. "And give this to anyone in need of a cold, gentle place."

Solaire stood and took them both. "I don't want to leave you," he said.

"You can't stay. You don't belong here; you've always cared too much for the poor mortals. I can see that hasn't changed, nor can I ask you to change. And there will always be another crisis." She placed a hand under his chin and raised his face, her eyes searching his own. "I will paint a portrait of you, too."

* * *

 **First of all, gah, this was a** _ **hard**_ **chapter to write, and I'm at the point where I just feel like this is good as it's going to get. I've tackled the reincarnation thing with June before, but never from June's perspective. Doing it from Solaire's point of view is just… difficult. It's so damn difficult.**

 **Secondly, RIP Watts.**

 **Anyway,** _ **so!**_ **Solaire is the** **Carthus Sandwor- I mean, he's** **the firstborn son of Gwyn,** _ **y'all.**_

 **And, just to clarify, no, I don't think Solaire is the firstborn in the actual lore of** _ **Dark Souls,**_ **though before we saw the Nameless King the idea had** _ **some**_ **merit. But the theory is just so much fun that I had to incorporate it.**

 **But yes. Solaire is the latest reincarnation of Malgwyn, which brings up some identity issues. He's like Oscar, in a way, except Oscar is a man with two souls while Solaire is a man with one soul and a mild-but-steadily-worsening case of dissociative identity disorder.**

 **There've been hints aplenty—it's been the longest-planned twist in the entire fic so far, after all—and I'm curious how many you picked up on. I'll list them off in the AN for next chapter (in case y'all want to go diving into the distant past chapters to look for them), but for now, if you saw this coming, let me know what tipped you off! I'm really curious what hints got picked up on and which ones slipped under the radar.**

* * *

 **I'm going to a housewarming party tomorrow night and I am going to get drunk off my face. In case I die of alcohol poisoning,** _ **TFI**_ **is going to end with** **Salem getting addicted to anime and becoming a shut-in and giving up all her previous goals. The epilogue is just a long, heated argument between Salem and Ruby over whether dub or sub is superior (Salem prefers sub, Ruby prefers dub).**


	61. Chapter 60: The Branwen Tribe

**So, what are the 'Solaire is the Nameless King' hints? In reverse-chronological order (more-or-less):**

 **June said to Artorias that Malgwyn's semblance allowed him to control the weather, which Solaire recently manifested in Irithyll. Ozpin said that the Profaned Greatsword was the weapon that killed Malgwyn, and when Solaire saw Farron wielding it he froze up (he didn't freeze up when he saw Sulyvahn with it, however, because he was emotionally vulnerable in Irithyll after the death of Lily Fowler). Ozpin also said that Malgwyn used shock dust in many of his reincarnations, which is something Solaire also uses. Ozpin also _also_ said that Malgwyn had a penchant for written communication, which has manifested in the form of Solaire leaving himself and others messages with his soapstone (first seen during the fall of Beacon). And, lastly, all of the old letters (from, like, Volume 2) to Priscilla **_**only**_ **appeared in chapters in which Solaire also appeared.**

 **To the guest reviewer: I have actually referenced Manus before, but plans have changed since then and I'm not sure if I'm going to go back to him. But, if I do, he'd be far more Grimm-like than man.**

* * *

Artorias stepped into the passenger cabin and shut the door behind him, carrying a cup of coffee. Ana sat on the left bunk, her back against the cabin wall, her knees tucked to her chest, her hood up to ward off what little light seeped through the drawn curtains. She sipped from a half-empty glass of water.

"How're you feeling?" he asked.

He received a grunt in response.

Artorias put the coffee down on the little low table by the window. The train had left early in the morning, and Ana hadn't quite recovered from the previous night's drinking. Rain drummed against the side and roof of the train. It was almost enough to overcome the stench of the marsh.

"Think you're gonna throw up?"

She groaned again. He wasn't sure if it was an affirmative or a negative groan.

Artorias sat across from her. "Can I get you anything else?"

She shook her head. "Thanks, Arty."

"Any time." He gave her a broad smile and received a little one in return. "How much do you remember from last night?"

"Not a lot. Oh gods, I said something really embarrassing, didn't I?"

"No, nothing like that. It's just that you told me some stuff about your family: stuff you've never told me sober. I just wanted to check if you were alright with me knowing. Or, you know, if you wanted to talk about it now that you _are_ sober."

"I dunno if I'm really that sober yet." She sipped at her water. "What did I say, exactly?"

"You showed me the letter and told me you wanted to reconnect with your sister. I can just pretend none of it ever happened, if you want."

Ana shook her head. "No, no, it's fine. As long as—never mind."

"…do you want to talk about it?"

She pursed her lips and averted her eyes. Artorias watched her closely. She still looked exhausted, and he guessed it wasn't just the hangover.

"If you need some space—"

"Did I ever tell you about my seventh birthday?"

Artorias shook his head.

"Mum took us all out to this restaurant in Kuo Kuana—well, all of us except Lara. She was sick, I think. It was a fancy place by Menagerie's standards. She told us to all be on our best behaviour. Quelaan even listened." She shrugged. "Anyway, we didn't know what anything on the menu was, so Mum ordered for us. It was some mild curry, with tofu and peanuts and—"

"Aren't you allergic to soy?"

"Well, yeah. And I reminded Mum of that, but she said that I couldn't just pretend to have an allergy to avoid eating something I didn't like. But, actually. I liked it. It was a really enjoyable meal until my tongue swelled up so much I could hardly breathe. I spent a week in the hospital all because she didn't want to look like she couldn't control her daughter around the other diners. Or maybe she really thought I was lying. She never apologised, though. I brought it up a few years later, and she denied it ever happened." She gulped down some more water.

It took Artorias a moment to pick his jaw off the ground. "That's horrible," he said. "I'm so sorry."

Ana pulled her hood back and rubbed the bridge of her nose. "Sorry. You're already bringing me coffee and water and—"

"It's okay. Well, the coffee's probably only okay-at-best—it's instant crap—but you know what I mean."

She smiled, then hugged her knees tighter and hid her face behind them. Artorias cleared his throat and stood. "Uh, do you want me to get you some more water?"

"That'd be nice."

/-/

A very wise woman had once said of Qrow Branwen that he was most at home when he was with family.

Times had changed, Qrow reflected, watching his nieces through the window of a dimly-lit bar. Summer, of course, had been talking about Raven, and once upon a time she'd been right. But it was hard to find a home with people you cared about when all you brought them was—

His train of though was broken when a drink was placed in front of him. "I didn't order—"

"From the woman upstairs. Red eyes," the waitress said. "Said you wouldn't mind bottom shelf."

Qrow sighed. And now the family came knocking. "Thanks," he said.

"But I went ahead and gave you top." The waitress winked. "Lucky you."

He raised an eyebrow at her—and her figure—as she walked away, before his attention returned again to the window. Team RWBY had disappeared to their rooms. Time to face family.

 _Lucky me._

/-/

Thunder boomed, and the train shuddered. Artorias shot upright, his eyes wide.

He'd been dreaming again. It'd been the same dream for some time now—not every night, but whenever he dreamed, it was the same. The desert, the Ringed City, his own ring growing heavy on his hand and the flames racing across the sky.

He breathed deeply to steady himself, then glanced across the room. Ana was fast asleep on the other bed, snoring lightly.

Since switching to metal armour, he'd not been able to wear his ring on his finger—the gauntlet was too bulky—and it now hung on a loop around his neck, beneath his cloak. He pulled it out from under his shirt. The copper was warm from his body heat.

A flash of lightning illuminated the drawn curtains, followed by another rumble of thunder. Artorias pulled the curtains aside a little and peered out into the darkness. Even as a faunus, he couldn't see far. The rain fell thick and heavy.

He shook his head. He was just a little on edge. It'd been a stressful few weeks, what with—

A flash of bright light drew his attention in the distance, pink and white, scattering in the air above the marshes like glass and refracting in the raindrops.

 _What the hell?_

Then he heard an explosion, somewhere near the front of the train. The carriage shook and shuddered, then twisted, careening off the tracks.

/-/

"So, what do you want?"

Raven shrugged. "A girl can't just catch up with her family?"

"She can, but you're not. Now how about we get on with it?" Qrow sipped at his drink. "Unless you plan on keeping these coming."

"Does she have it?"

"You know Yang's looking for you?"

"That's not—"

"Rhetorical question, I know you know. It's just obnoxious you'd bring up family then carry on like your own daughter doesn't exist.

"I _saved_ her."

"Once. Because that was your rule, right? Real mum-of-the-year material, sis. She's right next door, you know, if you wanted to pop over. She'd probably be eager to chat, actually, or at least until you make it abundantly clear how much of a raging _bitch_ you are." Qrow reached for his drink. Raven caught his hand.

"I told you Beacon would fall, and it did. I told you Ozpin would fail, and he has. Now, you tell me: does Salem have it?"

Qrow smirked. "I thought you weren't interested in all that."

"I just want to know what we're up against."

"And which 'we' are you referring to?"

She scowled, then let him go. Qrow massaged his wrist, then picked up his drink. She still had a hell of a grip.

"You should come back, Raven. The only way we beat her is by working together—all of us."

"You're the one who left. The tribe raised us, and you turned your back on them."

"They were killers and thieves." _Still are_ , Qrow mused.

"They were your family."

"You have a very skewed perception of that word."

He'd hit a sore spot. Raven jumped to her feet, nostrils flaring in anger. "I lead our people now. And as leader, I will do everything in my power to ensure our survival."

"I saw. The people of Shion saw too."

"The weak die. The strong live. Those are the rules."

"Well, you've certainly got someone strong on your side. I've seen the damage."

"If you have a point, get to it quickly," she said dismissively.

"Why? Going somewhere in a hurry?" Qrow scoffed. "So much for family."

"If you don't know where the relic is, then we have nothing left to talk about," she said, reaching for her mask. Qrow stopped her.

"I don't know where the Spring Maiden is either, but if you do, I need you to tell me."

"And why would I do that?"

"Because without her, we're all going to die."

She smirked back and pulled her mask away from his grip. "And which 'we' would you be referring to?"

/-/

Artorias pulled on his gauntlet and grabbed his sword—there was no time for the rest of his armour—then punched out the window, which, with the train turned on its side, was directly above him. He climbed through, his aura protecting him from the broken glass, then helped Ana up behind him. Humanoid figures rushed towards the cargo that had spilled out of the back of the train. He saw Siegward rushing to meet them, wearing a rounded breastplate and wielding what appeared to be the broken-off blade of a greatsword with leather wrapped around the blade above the crossguard to create a makeshift handle.

The side of the train was soaked wet and slippery underfoot. "Get the civilians away from the train!" Artorias yelled over the storm. There weren't many—only they and Siegward had gotten on at Catarina, but they'd picked up a few at the next town during the day. "I'll help Siegward!"

She nodded. "Be careful!" she said, then wiped the rain from her eyes with the back of her arm and pulled up her hood. She crushed a dust crystal in her hand, and the rain turned to steam around her, then she set off towards the front of the train.

Artorias dashed along the outside of the train. His boots struggled to find purchase, but it was a better surface to move on than the mud below—he was more likely to sink into that and get stuck than anything else. Ahead, Siegward, who'd dropped down into the mud, had his scroll strapped to his arm, illuminating the area around him. Artorias saw that he was surrounded, though not yet under attack.

The bandits—for that was his best guess as to who they were—were lightly armed and armoured, tougher than they looked but no match individually for a huntsman. But they would not be fighting as individuals: there were many of them, some armed with knives or clubs or swords, others with pistols and rifles, and even a bow and arrow, Artorias noticed, as one such projectile whistled past his face.

As Artorias approached, he heard Siegward yelling, "Where is Raven?" He slid to a stop at the end of the train. Siegward was completely encircled, and standing before him in the ring was a girl, her brown hair cropped short and her sleeves cut away at the shoulder. She wore an old helmet in the shape of a snarling hound's head, and hooked to her belt were two crescent-shaped blades. She couldn't have been much younger than Artorias.

"Siegward!" Artorias roared. "What are you doing?"

A few bandits in the ring around Siegward turned to face him, but the girl spoke. "Surround him too. Don't attack yet."

There were perhaps three, four dozen bandits surrounding Siegward, forming a large circle. At her order, some of them split off, trudging through the mud and climbing atop the train to encircle him too. Artorias brandished his weapon, but given that they weren't yet attacking him, he held back. They were vastly outnumbered, and might still be able to talk their way out of it.

"You should have run, Artorias," Siegward said. "I'd have been fine."

"Doesn't look like it."

"Leave him alone, Vernal," Siegward said. "I must speak with Raven."

"Raven is elsewhere," said Vernal. "And you're in no position to bargain. You lied to us." She inspected something in her hands, then scowled and through it in the mud.

"I lied to your man. You're only here because I wanted you here," Siegward said. "I want to speak to her."

"Then—"

Behind Vernal, a vortex of red and swirling black sprang into existence. A woman with black hair and pale skin emerged from it wearing an intricate Grimm-like mask.

She glanced between them, her gaze alien behind the mask, then settled on Siegward. "Professor Irons," she greeted.

"Tell your men to stand down, Raven. I just want to talk."

She glanced around the ring, taking in the situation—the three-or-four dozen men with guns and bows and blades trained on them, the capsized train, the storm. She did not tell them to lower their weapons, but she did turn back to Siegward and say, "Speak."  
"My grandmother went missing on a mission. I need you to find her. You know the wilds of Anima like nobody else."

"For what price?" Raven stepped closer, and her hand straying dangerously close to the hilt of the blade at her hip. "I was led to believe you had the seal of King Vendrick. It's a prize without peer. Can you offer me _anything_ of value?"

"I lied. Obviously."

Artorias glanced over his shoulder. There were a few men on the ground to prevent him from fleeing through the mud, but only three atop the train. He'd be able to break through their line easily enough, and as long as he had the high ground he suspected he'd be able to outrun either Vernal or Raven, who seemed to be the real threat.

But then Siegward would be left behind.

"Siegward, back down," he called. "We can still get out of this."

Raven's head snapped towards him. Artorias stared down her mask.

"One of you can. Unless you have something else to offer, Professor Irons, we have no further business, and for old time's sake you may leave unharmed. Consider it your one chance. Do not test me again."

"Raven, please. She's my family. If anyone can find her, it's you."

"She was a good warrior, but she has lived a long life. If her time has passed, it has passed. The strong live. The weak die."

"Raven—"

The woman cut the air open with her sword, and another red vortex opened. "Leave, before I change my mind," she said.

Siegward narrowed his eyes. "Don't kill the kid."

"Hmm? If he impresses, Vernal, you're welcome to keep him alive for entertainment."

Siegward grimaced, looked back, then said a single word— "Sorry"—and departed through the portal. Raven closed it behind him.

 _Son of a bitch._

Vernal smirked up at him. "You got a name, Wolf?"

Artorias gritted his teeth and glanced behind him again. The three men guarding his escape route grinned back at him.

"Don't try to run," Vernal called. "You'll lose any chance of mercy if you do."

He sighed. The rain was flattening his fringe against his face. He swept it back with his left hand and turned to face her. "My friends call me Arty," he said. "You can call me Artorias."

"Cold." Vernal grinned. "I like it."

If there was one thing he was good at, it was putting on a show.

Raven was clearly uninterested in their theatrics and turned towards the train, gesturing to three of the bandits. "With me. Take anything valuable you see, and if you find any civilians, kill them. We need to be out of here before the Grimm show up."

"But—" one of them protested, gesturing towards Artorias.

Raven's glare silenced him. They trudged off sheepishly. Raven turned to Vernal before leaving. "Be done before we're back."

"Yes, ma'am." Vernal stepped towards the train, then leapt towards it, nimbly climbing up the side despite it being slick with rain.

She drew her weapons.

Artorias readied his sword, drew his dagger, and hoped Quelana would be safe.

Vernal rushed him, staying low to maintain her balance. She slid along the train, swiping at his legs—Artorias, unhindered by his armour, leapt over her and sank his dagger into the top of the train. With so little friction, he slid around the train, anchored by the dagger, and swung his sword for Vernal's neck as she recovered her footing.

She parried, her feet sliding backwards a little. The movement threatened her balance, and she twisted, angling a blade backwards and firing off a laser that carved through the side of the train. The recoil overcorrected her, and she threw herself towards him again, twisting so that a foot came flying towards his face.

Artorias ducked it, but was unprepared for her to firmly plant it against the train, allowing her other foot to come arcing down in an axe kick. He twisted away, and the blow whistled past his shoulder. Her heel left a dent in the train.

She pursued, blades swinging. Artorias backed up the train, barely keeping his footing as he fended off her assault. She was much stronger than she looked, and agile too, using her weapon's recoil to change her momentum and strike from unexpected angles. A botched parry sent Artorias' dagger careening off into the night, and he bashed aside her right weapon with his gauntlet to open her guard, but she caught his follow-up strike with her left and kicked him in the gut.

He slid away, throwing his weight forwards so he didn't fall backwards, and steadied himself against the train with his gauntleted hand.

"Come on!" she yelled, clanging her blades together. "Hit me!"

Aware of the many, many firearms trained on him should he not oblige, he pushed his hair out of his eyes again then advanced, chambering a slow sideways sweep from left to right. She dodged away from it with ease, but he let the momentum of the missed attack shift his weight to his back foot, then, as she moved in to capitalise on his 'mistake', threw himself forwards, his shoulder crashing into her chin.

Her head snapped backwards, but to her credit she recovered quickly, twisting away from the follow-up overhead swing so that it only clipped her shoulder rather than splitting her down the middle. It still threw her balance, and she slipped off the train into the mud, only just managing to land on her feet.

She laughed and saluted up to him with her—empty—right hand. "You'll do just fine," she said.

It took Artorias a moment to realise that she was missing a weapon. Before he could even start looking for it, he felt it smack him in the back of the head. He fell forwards, his face colliding with the metal train, and knew no more.

/-/

Quelana raced down the train. The civilians were—more-or-less—safe, but Artorias was not. There'd been a lot of them. Maybe not too many, but, with conditions being what they were, their strength in numbers was hardly a small one. One mistake would leave him stuck in the mud, unable to manoeuvre.

She had to get him back.

She slid to a stop at the back end of the train, just in time to see him being dragged, muddy and unconscious, through a mass of swirling red and black. She reached out for him and, with a roar, fire coiled into existence, spitting and steaming in the rain. It lashed out towards the portal, whip-like, and wrapped around something—a leg. She pulled it back through, and a bandit came flying back out of the portal, landing face down in the mud.

The portal closed a moment later.

He was gone.

* * *

 **I think (aside from the tournament fights) this is the first fight with the terrain being a constant threat throughout. I really liked the image of two acrobatic fighters struggling to keep their footing as they throw themselves at each other. Lots of fun.**

 **It also felt really nice to have the Team RWBY-plot and the Artorias/Quelana plot linked up so closely, if only briefly, by Raven. I just like the contrast of Raven stepping from the cosy tavern into the drenched, muddy landscape between Catarina and Mistral.**

 **I feel kinda bad about portraying Siegward as being a little cowardly.**

 **But the thing about Siegward (and Siegmeyer, for that matter) is that every bad situation they end up in, they approach rationally. They step back and try to find a solution, and they can do this because it takes a lot to get them emotional. They're hardy and resilient. But, when they _do_ get emotional(the Chaos Eaters for Siegmeyer and the Yhorm boss fight for Siegward), they rush in. They make mistakes. It's more likely than not that Siegmeyer dies at the Chaos Eaters (arguably the better ending for him, tbh-Ash Lake is absolutely heartbreaking otherwise), and you can hear in Siegward's delivery that Yhorm pushes him to his limit.**

 **Here, Siegward got emotional. He made a dumb mistake in looking for Sieglinde, and he knew Raven could have killed him for it. So, when he was offered an out, he took it.**

 **As for the Witch of Izalith, Ozpin has kind of taken over her position in the creation myths, but I'm still drawing as much as I can from her story to inform this interpretation. The central theme running between almost everyone who linked the fire (except Ludleth, maybe) is _narcissism_. They see themselves as above the Dark Souls (humanity), and so wish to extend the age of fire for their own benefit, even if in many cases they themselves are (or were) human.**

 **Now, the Witch never tried to link the fire, that's true. But she did try to extend the age of fire for her own benefit. She was just a step more egotistical and tried to _supplant_ it, and we all know how that went.**

 **So I'm just taking the narcissist part of her character and running with it.**


	62. Chapter 61: Rest

**A shorter chapter today. Downtime chapters tend to be much lighter, I guess.**

 **There's been a shoutout or two to the Winter/Artorias dynamic (buddy cop with a hint of mentorship) in the reviews, which I totally agree was a lot of fun, and it's got me wondering: which other character dynamics have y'all been enjoying the most? For me, the Arty/Ana dynamic (exes who won't admit they're not over each other) is what I'm having the most fun with right now, but my other favourites in the past have been Penny/Gilderoy (awkward start to a friendship), Cinder/Sulyvahn (rivals but allies), and Artorias/Ciaran (sibling-esque love/hate).**

* * *

Jaune was shaken awake by a hand on his shoulder. General James Ironwood stood over him. In the chairs opposite Vengarl's hospital bed, Ren and Nora lay sleeping.

Jaune stood, stretched, then followed the general out into the hall.

"How is he?" Ironwood asked.

"The doctors say he's lucky to be alive, but that nobody ever fully recovers from that level of dust poisoning. Shortness of breath, restricted range of motion in his neck and limbs, reduced muscle density—"

"I'm sorry. He's a good man."

"Yeah." Jaune sighed. "How'd things go on your end?"

Ironwood pursed his lips, then nodded. "Watts is dead. After his attack on the CCT, the media's been clamouring for answers. I've issued a statement to the major networks. They'll be running the story within the hour."

"So he didn't reach this… painting?"

"He did, actually. Solaire followed him in."

"Solaire?"

"I'm as confused as you are. Nothing he said when he returned made much sense to me. He's a few rooms down, if you want to talk to him—he broke a rib—but he's resting for now. We'll have to trust Vengarl can give us some answers. Call me when he wakes."

/-/

Jacques Schnee entered Atlas General Hospital, giving James Ironwood a nod as he passed on his way out. He marched up to the receptionist's desk and, when the man—a faunus, Jacques noted—behind the counter looked up from his monitor and asked how he could help, said, "I'm here to see my daughter."

The receptionist raised an eyebrow. "Name?"

"You know who I am. Let me pass."

The receptionist sighed, dismissed his hard-light keyboard, and said, "Specialist Schnee doesn't want to see you."

"I am her next of kin. And she didn't even know I was coming—"

"With all due respect, my understanding is that you disowned her, and if you didn't then she has certainly disowned you, Mr Schnee."

"Let me see my daughter, or I am going to sue you and everybody in this building."

He sighed, then tapped a scroll and held it to his ear. "You have a visitor, Specialist Schnee. Mm-hmm. Mm-hmm. He did. I can have a security team escort him if you— yes, Specialist Schnee." He put the scroll down and turned his attention back to Jacques. "She's in the—"

"I know where she is," he snapped. As if the richest man in Remnant didn't have a few contacts in a local hospital. "May I see her or not?"

The receptionist nodded and pointed him down a hallway.

Jacques held a handkerchief to his nose as he passed through the corridors. He hated hospitals. They smelled of death.

He arrived at Winter's room and entered, shutting the door behind him. She was sitting upright in her bed, talking idly to Mr Cole in the corner.

"Good of you to knock, father," she said.

He offered her a curt nod. "Winter," he greeted, then turned to Flynt. "Mr Cole, can I speak to you in the corridor for a moment?"

"I was just stabbed in the liver, you know, nothing serious—but really, I'm fine, just being kept another night for observation—"

"I always found insecurity to be your worst trait, Winter, at least until you tried to develop a wit."

"Well, when I was told I had a visitor I almost believed I was actually being visited, but I suppose it's too much to expect any humanity from you, father."

"Charming as always. Now, Mr Cole."

Jacques stepped out. Flynt and Winter shared a confused look before Flynt followed him out.

"What do you want, Schnee?" The corners of his mouth were drawn downwards in a scowl.

"No need to be so hostile," Jacques said. "This is a business proposition."

"Why should I listen to you?"

"I intend to disinherit my daughter, Weiss—"

"A _solid_ start."

"—in favour of my son, Whitley. I wish to control the story, however. While she remains abroad, the media cycle will be about how I disinherited her rather than her 'giving up' her inheritance. It's not a good image, you understand."

"Wow. Mm-hmm. You're a piece of work, you are."

"I'll continue ignoring your interjections for the time being, if you don't mind. My proposal is that you find her and, ah… 'convince' her to return to Atlas."

"Yeah? You'd have to make _me_ your heir to get me to do that, Schnee."

Jacques pursed his lips. "No, I was thinking of something a little cosier—a little corner dust shop in Mantle, perhaps?"

Flynt narrowed his eyes. "What are you saying?"

"Your father is in debt. I bought out his dust shop after it went under, but I could be persuaded to bring him on board to manage it."

That shop had been Flynt's family's pride and joy, and Jacques knew it. He saw a flicker of doubt cross the boy's face.

Jacques produced a business card from his coat and handed it to the boy. "Don't think too long."

/-/

" _This is Carol Jades with the Atlas News Network. Our deepest condolences go out to the families of victims of an attack in the CCT tower early yesterday morning. An anonymous source within the Atlas Military has confirmed for us that Doctor Arthur Watts was behind the attack. Watts may be familiar to viewers for also being a candidate for the Irithyll council seat. With the polls only a week away, victory for his rival, huntress Eliza Farron, seems all but assured."_

Farron muted her scroll and dropped it on the table. "Trust the ANN to turn a tragedy into a political advertisement." Which wasn't to say she didn't appreciate the plug.

The run for office was one of the few things that had been entirely her idea, though, admittedly, it had been fuelled by a desire to get in her ghostly parasite's way. Campaigning on security against the arsonists hadn't just been rhetoric. It would have been difficult to thwart him without punishment, but she'd have been able to thwart him.

And then Polendina's creation had fallen on her doorstep.

That being said, she'd grown fond of politics. It was quieter than life as a huntress, and she'd come to appreciate quiet.

"An advertisement in your favour," Ironwood pointed out.

"That doesn't make it right."

"I suppose not."

"What do you reckon they'll come up with for a motive? A disgraced scientist returns from a ten-year self-imposed exile to run for a council seat, only to ruthlessly murder a dozen innocents a week out from the polls? That's confusing, to say the least."

"They can believe what they want," Ironwood said.

"I'm not asking for _their_ benefit." Farron rolled her eyes. "I'm asking because _I_ want to know."

Ironwood tapped a file on his desk. "Proving that Tristan Fowler existed doesn't prove every bad deed you've carried out was actually his doing. I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt and keep it out of the press, but that doesn't mean I trust you, Eliza."

They were interrupted by a banging sound. The 'floating' sword—actually being carried by Gilderoy's disembodied soul—tapped against a blackboard with two words written on it: ' _Yes_ ,' and ' _No_.'

It was the simplest form of communication Ironwood could think of that wouldn't damage his office walls.

"Sorry, Ornstein," Farron said, glancing down to his metal shell. She patted his shoulder. "Ironwood?"

Ironwood looked back down to a file he'd recovered from Watts' basement. _Project PENNY Subject 00B._

He sighed.

"Mr Ornstein, the inhibitor chip is a separate device from your artificial brain, but so deeply embedded that we couldn't possibly remove it without causing permanent damage. However, in order to so severely control your movements, the inhibitor chip requires a lot of power. Doctor Polendina's solution was simple. Because your body runs on shock dust, which your semblance enhances, you're constantly producing more energy than your body needs. The inhibitor chip siphons off that excess. Are you with me?"

Gilderoy tapped, _"Yes."_

"With that in mind, we have three possible solutions. Firstly, we can build another artificial brain for you and transfer your soul to it. The issue is that it could take years—decades, even—before we could even attempt something of the sort, and if we make a mistake it could kill you. I've sent Penny's file on, and Doctor Polendina's notes are difficult for them to parse, to say the least. We don't have the technology; _he_ had the technology.

"Secondly, we could transfer your soul to a human body. While we have Miss Farron and Mr Fowler as an example of a more outdated version of this technology—"

"Not a great experience," Farron chimed in. "But your mileage may vary."

Ironwood hummed his agreement. "The soul transfer, in their case, was made possible by their semblances. I'm… unaware as to whether or not Doctor Polendina's latest prototype has been tested. It should work, but it could have complications, and we'd need to find a willing candidate. I would not ask it of anyone unless there was no other choice, which brings us to the last option: there's a procedure you can undergo to re-lock your aura."

Farron glanced up. "What?"

Gilderoy gestured to her with the sword. Ironwood assumed he was echoing her question.

"To my knowledge, it's only been used once—for most people, there are no drawbacks for unlocking aura—but some semblances come with… complications. We've had need of it in the past." Ironwood grimaced.

"It's not an easy process," he continued. "But if you re-lock your aura, neither your semblance nor the inhibitor chip should function. The aura is the outward expression of the human soul in a quasi-physical form, and so it requires both a mental trigger and a physical trigger to be re-locked. Atlas created a device that mimics the effects of the Apathy to act as the mental trigger. The physical trigger, much like unlocking an aura, is a mantra."

Farron's eyebrows drew close together. "How the hell did you manage to mimic the Apathy?"

"I don't know, and I don't want to know," Ironwood said. "I was not in command when it was developed. When I became general, I tracked the project down, locked the device away beneath Atlas, and destroyed all the related files. Of all the things Atlas has created, I wish to see that weaponised the least."

"I can understand that."

"Mr Ornstein, would you be willing to undergo this procedure?"

The sword wavered. Farron understood why. One's aura was precious, an extension of the self. She had only very vague memories of a time before her own had been unlocked, and those memories were detached, fuzzy, like watching a stranger walking around in her body—although, to be fair, some of them were exactly that.

The process didn't sound inherently permanent, but if Gilderoy ever unlocked his aura again, his semblance would keep him mute and restrained. In practice, it would be locked away to him forever.

Ironwood's scroll buzzed. He checked it, then pocketed it, shrugged his coat on, and made for the door.

"Think on it, Mr Ornstein. I'll be back soon."

Farron watched him go, then turned to address the empty air where Ornstein's soul held the sword steady. "Do you want me to go?"

He tapped, _"No."_

"Yeah. I wouldn't want to be alone in your shoes." She ran her free hand through her hair and felt the nubs where her ears had once been. She could still hear through them, though the sound was dulled and distant. "I was too young to remember the soul transfer, you know. For as far back as I can remember, I've had this other voice in my head. Even when he'd use his semblance to go wandering off, we could still talk. And he _hated_ me." She sighed. "The only other person who knew about him was my partner. He took over my body just to let her know that he hated her too. That's some serious dedication."

She blinked, realising she was rambling, and looked down to Ornstein's shell. "When I found out that he was more than just an imaginary anti-friend, I was told my soul was too weak to sustain life by itself. That I needed him to survive. I lied to you, you know. I had absolutely no idea if I'd keep on living when you killed him. I had no idea if I'd still be around to pull you back to your… body. You could have died. I'd apologise, but even if I'd died, I'd have died happy. I wanted my Deep-damned head to be _quiet._ What I mean is that I can't say I'm sorry for risking your life, because I'd do it again. I'd do it a hundred times over to be free."

She glanced up. Ornstein scratched a crude circle around the word _'Yes'_ with the sword. Then he put the weapon down, and she felt a chill pass through her, which she knew to mean his soul was stepping through her. She felt a slight pulse as he settled back into his inert body.

She smiled. "Can't put a price on free will, can you?" she said, reaching for the shock dust.

/-/

"What did he want?" Winter asked.

Flynt bit his lip. "Uh, he wants me to find your sister and bring her back to Atlas."

She sighed. "He's going to disinherit her, isn't he? And he wants to have an iron grip over how it gets out."

"How'd you guess?"

"When he disinherited me, I was at Atlas Academy, so he could hardly take me away and lock me up in the manor. He just sent a lawyer over with a non-disclosure agreement." She looked away, eyes narrowed. "Don't tell anyone I told you that. Blame the meds, if you do."

"You're not on meds. You're here for observation, right?"

"Mr Cole—"

"Sure, sure, alright." Flynt said. "No offense, but your dad _sucks._ "

"None taken." She reached for her water and sipped from it. "You can go if you want, you know."

"Huh?"

"General Ironwood only told you to make sure I got here, not babysit me. I'm going to be perfectly fine." She frowned. "He didn't order you to babysit me, did he?"

"Oh. I thought you meant about Weiss."

"He ordered you to babysit me, didn't he?" Her left hand squeezed into a fist for a moment before she released the tension. "Typical."

"Aren't you worried about her?"

"Honestly? No." Winter shrugged. "Look, I don't know what my father offered you—or threatened you with—and I imagine he didn't say anything without having _you_ sign an NDA, but Weiss can handle herself. If you think you need to do what he says, go, by all means. But I'd have to wish you the worst luck."

Flynt shook his head. "I'm not going."

He certainly wouldn't tell his father about it, though. Though his grudge against the Schnees ran deep, Flynt's father wouldn't be so proud as to not accept Jacques' offer. The shop came above the grudge. But now that Flynt had had a chance—however brief—to get to know Winter and Weiss, it seemed absurd that he'd sell out either of them. They were more than just a name.

Maybe it was about time he stopped just calling them 'Schnee'.

He frowned. "And he didn't make me sign anything, either."

"I still wouldn't say anything to the press if I were you," Winter said. "That sounds like he's trying to bait you into a slander case. He gets even more petty whenever Weiss is involved, even tangentially."

"Your dad really _does_ suck."

"I'm well aware of it."

* * *

 **Farron has grown on me so damn hard, y'all, and I don't know why.**

 **Sometimes it's just fun to take a pretty evil character, do something vaguely evil with them, and then shut it down in the same chapter.**

 **I'm talking about Jacques, of course. Despite being basically pure profit-driven evil, he's not really a villain to anyone except Weiss. Is he a sore wound for Winter? Maybe, but she's a god-damned specialist now, and she's grown beyond him. Is he a sore wound for Flynt? Maybe, but he has, you know, a** _ **moral compass**_ **, so he's not going to dwell on a little temptation.**

 **I guess what I'm trying to say is that everybody can be friends over their hatred of Jacques Schnee. Jacques Schnee, by being a dick, makes the world a better, brighter, more united place. And that's just lovely.**

 **I wanted to include Vengarl waking up and explaining stuff in this chapter but combining that with Ornstein's scene made the chapter as a whole feel very** **exposition-heavy, so I'm leaving it for next time. At least I've written ahead on it now, I guess. And Solaire was conspicuously absent today for structural reasons.**

 **I've done some writing ahead for the Arty/Ana plot too, and oh boy oh golly-gosh darn there's a long-absent character showing up next time I think y'all are gonna enjoy.**


	63. Chapter 62: Thick as Thieves

**I feel I should have specified:** _ **returning**_ **long-absent character. And character(s) plural. Hmm.**

 **The Moonlight Butterfly is busy clipping through the walls of Beacon tower, unfortunately.**

* * *

"Hey, I remember you. You were the sad chick at the bar!"

Quelana's grip tightened on Artorias' dagger. She'd found it sticking out of the mud a few yards from the train, handle-up.

It had been a long night. There'd been a handful of Grimm—nothing she couldn't handle—but she'd had to keep watch for a few hours while the civilians, a dozen of them in all, caught what sleep they could huddled in sleeping bags and blankets salvaged from the wreck of the train. On foot, the next town ought to be two or three days away, but she didn't want to travel at night in such terrain. Taijitu and Tiddaliks weren't the only Grimm to make the marshes their home. There were also Wisps, that never directly attacked but that lured their prey out into the bogs to drown.

"Hey! Let me go!"

Ana pressed the hilt of the knife into her forehead. Now that he was awake—and he'd managed to spit out his gag—it was probably about time to start questioning him.

She just wasn't particularly good at interrogation.

"Raven'll come back for me. She'll kill you, you know."

"If she was coming back, she'd already be here," Quelana snapped.

"Oh, so you _do_ talk. Now how about you let me go?"

Ana stood and marched over to him, sheathing the knife in her belt. He was tied to the one of the stunted, twisted trees that grew out of the swamps.

"Where did you take him?" she asked.

He grinned. "Never would have guessed there's a huntress under that robe. Anything else of interest you're hiding under there?"

Ana grimaced. She'd gotten in her fair share of brawls, but she'd never attacked somebody who was totally defenceless.

She wasn't comfortable starting.

"I'm not going to repeat myself," she said.

"Who? The puppy?" The bandit raised an eyebrow. "What're you gonna do if I don't say?"

If Artorias had been there, he'd have broken the man's nose, teeth, or fingers—or, with the way the guy'd been talking, probably all three.

But that was the problem. He wasn't there.

Quelana cocked back a fist and threw a punch.

The bandit's head snapped to the side. A moment later, he looked back at her, laughing. "Some huntress you are."

She hid her hand in her sleeve to hide how it shook. "Where is he!?"

"Won't matter if I say," the bandit said, chuckling. "Come on. Hit me agai- mmf!"

Ana stuffed the gag back into his mouth then turned away, scowling. It was about time to get moving anyway. She could deal with him later, she rationalised, ignoring his muffled jeers.

/-/

"There's not supposed to be a village here. We're not supposed to find one for a few more days yet." Blake looked up from the map. "Something's wrong."

Yang frowned and climbed onto one of the few standing fence posts for a better look. "Seems abandoned. Ruined."

It was getting late in the evening. At the very least, they might be able to sleep with a roof over their heads.

Ruby's hand twitched for her scythe. "There might be survivors," she said.

They hurried through the main gate. Yang's observation proved correct, in a way. There was no movement save the wind. Weeds grew up between the paved stones in the road.

Their footsteps echoed in the eerie quiet. Scaffolding rose around them like wooden skeletons. In the distance, a murder of crows set off into the air, cawing loudly.

"Over here!" Blake called. She stood before a vine-covered stone and pulled the greenery aside. "…Oniyuri. I've never heard of it."

"It seems familiar," Weiss said, moving closer to inspect the writing. "But I can't place it."

"What do you think happened here?" Ruby asked.

Yang ran her hand along a stone fence. She saw claw marks, perhaps from a Nevermore, perhaps from a simple crow. The marks were dulled, the stone worn down by the wind and time. Perhaps it was Grimm. Perhaps they'd simply left. "Whatever happened here, it happened long ago," she said. She drew herself to her full height and peered over the inner walls. "Everything looks more 'finished' further in," she said. "We should take shelter for the night. I don't think the rain's gone for good."

"I think we should move on a little further," Blake said. "There's still some light. And this place… I don't like it."

"Rubes? Weiss? What do you think?"

"I don't like this place either," Weiss said, "but I think we should call it here tonight. It's incomplete, but it looks sturdy enough."

Ruby glanced skyward. "I think we should stay. Just… close to main street. This place looks empty, but it doesn't _feel_ empty. I don't want to be anywhere we could get lost."

Blake pursed her lips, then nodded. "I'll take first watch," she said.

/-/

"You two are on first watch tonight. Wake me around midnight for the second shift, or if you see _anything_ suspicious," Quelana said.

The civilians nodded and prepared for the night's rest. Over the past few days, the rain had slowed and eventually ceased, leaving the air humid, hot, and sticky. They'd been following the train line for that time, and they were all growing weary, but few to the same degree as Ana. Aside from the exhaustion of fighting off occasional Grimm, she'd also taken the midnight shift each night. It was when the Wisps were at their most capricious. She'd seen them dancing out in the distance, feel their voices in her head. She couldn't be sure the civilians would have the discipline to ignore it.

It occurred to her that she was developing a bad habit of running on little rest.

"We move at first light again," she said. "We should reach Asago in the evening. Rest up."

She laid down a sheet, salvaged from the train, on a relatively dry patch of ground beneath one of the sparse trees. A little further away, she heard some muffled complaints—or taunts, perhaps, she couldn't tell—as the bandit was tied to another tree.

She'd taken another crack at him on the second day, but it had gone as poorly as the first. She hadn't punched him again. Now she'd resolved to reach Asago and turn him over to the authorities. Once they got some answers out of him, she'd be able to find Artorias.

She lay down, pulling up her hood. The sheet was little more than protection from the muddy ground—she held a dust crystal to her chest for what little warmth it could offer. The ground beneath the sheet was soft, and not in a good way. It felt like she could sink into it at any moment.

The stars peered down from above. Now that she'd stopped moving, the exhaustion set in quickly. Her joints ached, and her eyelids felt heavy. It didn't take long for her to drift off to sleep.

She dreamed of a different night, some seven, almost eight months past. A field mission had gone wrong. Her bullhead had crashed on the return trip. It'd taken a week for her team to trek back to civilisation from the forests north of the desert, supporting a pilot with a broken leg, scrolls all out of power and unable to call for retrieval.

But it was not the nights spent under the stars she dreamed of. It was the night she'd staggered back into Izalith, exhausted and filthy.

It was a good dream.

But it was a good dream cut short. It felt as though she'd been asleep only five minutes, but she was awoken by a hand shaking her shoulder.

"Miss Huntress!"

One of the civilians—a man with a long face and a goatee, who'd said he'd been a security guard for some bank in Mistral, and so had been appointed to the first watch—stood over her.

"Hmm?" Ana pushed his hand away and sat upright. Looking upwards, she saw that the moon had yet to reach its zenith. "It's not time for my shift, is it?"

"The prisoner's missing," the man explained. Ana's eyes widened. "We don't know what happened—we were worried the Wisps were coming closer—and when we looked back he was gone."

She was on her feet in an instant. He couldn't be allowed to get away. She needed him to find Artorias. "Stay here," she said. "Don't wake anyone yet. We don't want to draw the Grimm."

She moved towards the place where the bandit had been tied, and quickly spotted drag marks in the mud. She supposed to a human, they'd be obscured by darkness, but she saw them well enough.

They led north, but soon veered away from the train tracks they'd been following. She set off after them. That he was being dragged suggested that he was being taken, and not willingly. Perhaps the tribe _had_ come back after all—but to silence him.

Further away from the tracks, long, tall grass sprouted up out of the swamp. The trail continued through it, and she picked her way through it, keeping her eyes low not only to follow the tracks but to watch for small Taijitu. Ahead, she neared a large pool of swamp water—too shallow to be called a lake—around which a copse of leafless, sickly trees loomed.

Then she heard it: the bandit's voice.

"—I'll talk!" he said. "Please, don't—I'll talk!"

Ana pushed her back to a tree and listened closely, clutching a dust crystal.

"We run raids out of the old Bastille, on Lake Matsu. Nobody can approach by water because of the Grimm, and there's nowhere to land an airship, so Raven gets us in and out with her semblance. That's the only way to get there."

Ana didn't hear the other party speak, but she heard a squeak of fear from the bandit.

"I can't! It's been four days; she's not coming back for me. I can't get you there. Let me go, please!"

Ana heard a _click_ and a rasp of steel.

"I told you what you wanted! Don't kill me!"

Ana stepped out from behind the tree. Her aura pulled energy from the dust and redirected it outwards as a gout of flame, illuminating the scene. Standing over the bandit was a girl, barely five feet tall, with half-pink half-brown hair. She held a bladed parasol to the bandit's throat, but, when fire began to lance through the air, she looked up, surprised. It was the moment Ana needed to wrap tendrils of fire around their legs and necks, preventing them from running.

"If you're looking for these fools' hideout, I think we can help each other," Ana said, "but you're going to have to put the parasol down first."

/-/

Yang sat atop a wooden crossbeam and leaned back against the scaffolding. She was on second watch. Blake was just drifting off to sleep now.

It was beginning to rain again, albeit gently. She tugged her blanket closer around her shoulders, wrapping it around her shoulders and head like a hood. It made her feel cosy.

A Nevermore circled far overhead, its shadow sometimes passing across the moon. Blake had pointed it out when they'd changed shifts. It'd been there a while, apparently. At least half an hour. But it wasn't coming closer, so it probably wasn't anything to worry about.

It reminded Yang of Raven, oddly enough. Perhaps it was the feeling that it, as a Grimm, was incapable of love. Or perhaps it was the fact it just _looked_ like a raven.

Qrow had told her about Raven's hideout—the Bastille. Impenetrable, allegedly, but he'd said they kept lookouts on the closest shoreline, in a place once called Brume. If she were to seek Raven out, it would soon be time to part ways with her team.

And she still wasn't sure if she would.

She'd not confided in her team yet. Blake would understand. Yang had told her once before how important the mystery of her mother was to her. Ruby would understand too, though Yang doubted she'd agree with it. But she'd understand.

And Weiss…

Well, Weiss didn't seem to hold her parents in particularly high regard. The family name, sure, but not the family itself, Winter aside. She'd wonder why it mattered to her at all, Yang suspected. If Raven didn't want her, why did Yang want Raven?

 _I'd be a different person if I hadn't found him._

She'd been playing that conversation with Artorias again and again in her head lately. At first, she'd thought it encouragement—not that she'd made him privy to her situation—but more and more lately she was looking at it the other way.

Yang knew she'd be a different person if she sought out her mother. She wasn't sure how she'd change, but she _would_ change, and maybe not for the better. And it occurred to her that the wolf hadn't specified he'd changed for the better either. The bender Qrow had told her about indicated he was in far from a good place.

She was a good sister. A good friend. A good teammate. Did she have to be more? Did she have to be _less_? Did she have to change at all?

She was broken out of her thoughts by a _thud._ Then another, and another. Out of the darkness, a shape loomed, armour black as the night, and embers glowed along the stone blade it clasped in its hands.

The knight came to a stop, and impaled his weapon into the ground.

"Ruby Rose!" he bellowed. In the building below, Blake leapt to her feet, already reaching for her weapon. Ruby sat upright, startled, and Weiss threw her sheets aside with a glyph, already inspecting the dust cylinders in Myrtenaster's handle. "I know you are here!"

/-/

Artorias came around slowly. Or, at least, it felt that way. It didn't seem much brighter when he opened his eyes, and he came to realise that it was because it _wasn't_ any brighter. He was in a cell. There was straw on the floor, a bucket in the corner, and the barred window above that let through only a little moonlight. Some rain fell through it onto the floor.

He sat up, groaning. His head and back hurt.

"And the Wolf Knight awakes," a familiar voice said. Somebody was slow-clapping in the corner of the cell. "I've had worse cellmates."

Artorias looked over. A man with orange hair and a dirtied white coat sat on a low metal cot, legs crossed.

"Roman?"

"The one and only." The thief grinned. "How've you been, Wolf?"

Artorias rubbed his temples. "How long have I been out?"

"A few days. You looked to be coming around on day one, but then when Vernal dropped you off, well, she really _dropped_ you off." That explained the headache. "I've only been here a week longer. I _was_ on my way to Wind Path. I've got some contacts there, so I was going to lay low until somebody else dealt with the screaming fire bitch and her band of merry orphans."

"Cinder?"

"Did I stutter? Anyway, Neo and I were staying the night in some Podunk-bloody-nowhere when Raven and her merry tribe of—you know, I've used this one before, you get it—they attacked, and I got caught in the crossfire."

Artorias recalled the flash of pink and white he'd seen just before the train had been upended. "Neo…?"

"Pink, white, and brown, short, a little quiet? She'd be _so_ heartbroken if you've forgotten her. I think she's fond of you, in a pet-like way. You know, when you're not trying to kill each other."

"I assume I'm the pet in this scenario."

"Of course, and not like a dog or a cat or anything. You're a pet she doesn't expect to last that long, and might end up killing through her own negligence. You're like… a goldfish?"

"She's not here, is she?"

"She's very much elsewhere. I'm here—and I presume you are, too—for a little something these poorly-dressed Branwen twerps call 'entertainment', but I'd guess they just throw their prisoners in a pit and see what happens. Gotta tell you, blood sports haven't been the same since the Vytal tournament fell apart."

Artorias pursed his lips. _Branwen_. It took him a moment to place the name, but when he did, his eyes widened. _Qrow Branwen._

Artorias didn't know the story at all, but the fact that Qrow had never mentioned his sister didn't bode well.

"I wasn't travelling alone," Artorias said. "Someone's coming for me."

"Red? I'll admit she's more resourceful than she looks, but—"

"No. Somebody else." Artorias pursed his lips. "And I'll bet Neo's coming for you too." That was probably her outside the train; she'd been trying to warn them. She was following the tribe. "What's this 'blood sport' like?"

"Haven't been thrown into it yet. Tribe's been away raiding, so no need for their precious entertainment. But the bloke in the cell across from us said some stuff before he bled out."

"Bled out?"

"Yeah, his arm had been torn off. Nasty stuff. He said something about a champion, a semblance…" Roman shrugged. "Look, I see where you're going, and I agree. We need to stay alive until our respective saviours can bail us out. If you're offering a truce, I'm on board—never thought I'd say this, but I trust you more than anyone else in this place—but all bets are off once Neo gets here."

Artorias eyed him warily.

He was untrustworthy, but he was at least honest about it. There was a very real risk of death for both of them. But that was how it was supposed to be, wasn't it? Dead in a ditch within the decade.

This was the life he'd chosen, apparently.

Grimacing, the wolf shook the thief's hand.

* * *

 **Hell of a time to get a shoutout for the Arty/Yang dynamic.**

 **Arty and Yang are very similar characters. They consciously act as role models for the people around them, they have strained relationships with one or both of their parents, and they've developed their wit as a coping mechanism for past trauma. When they're hanging out, they're hilarious (not to toot my own horn), and their shared experience makes for good 'real talk' as well.**

 **They have a lot in common with Winter too, actually. I'd be keen to get Yang and Winter in a room together some time. Not for a while, though.**

 **Ruby/Gough, of course, exists purely to be wholesome and cute.**

 **All of that is by design, but the Raime/Sulyvahn dynamic was a total fluke that I'm glad worked out, haha. They're good foils to each other.**

 **Anyway, Roman and Neo are back! It's fun to write somebody as flamboyantly** _ **mean**_ **as Roman. And some RWBY vs Raime hype, oh my!**


	64. Chapter 63: Things Unspoken

**Sorry about the delay, folks. I had a bit of a mental breakdown recently, and I was in no place to write this chapter, as it's a bit confrontational. I wrote a lot of fluff though, for other projects. A** _ **looooot**_ **of fluff. It made me feel better.**

 **Just so you're aware, updates are likely to come slower for a little bit while I work my shit out. Don't get me wrong, I love writing this (and I fucking love writing fluff), but it's unhealthy to write to distract myself.**

* * *

 **Mantle**

 **Eighty-One Years Ago**

"Quiet!" King Osric drew his cloak closer around his face, hiding his features, then turned away from the painting. "Victor won't wait forever." He sheathed the greatsword of grey metal on his back and reached for the silver sword at his hip. "We need to go."

The woman lying on the floor was screaming, clutching her ears. "I want to exist!" she yelled. "I want to exist, I want to exist, I want to—"

Vengarl knelt by her and reached out to comfort her. She spasmed and twitched, and he hesitated, withdrawing his hand. "It's okay. You're going to be okay."

"Vengarl, we need to _go!_ Someone's going to hear her!"

"Lucatiel, please—"

Her hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. "Was that my name?" she asked. Her eyes were desperate, pleading.

"Lucatiel—"

"Remember it, please. I…" she groaned, and her grip loosened. Her eyes clenched shut, and she let out a keening wail.

"Vengarl!"

The young man grimaced. "Sorry," he mumbled, then bashed the pommel of his sword against Lucatiel's temple. She fell limp, and he lifted her onto his shoulder.

Osric led him back up the tunnel. They heard guards approaching from up ahead. Snarling, Osric drew his silver sword. Energy coalesced around the blade, pale green, hues of midnight and starlight shimmering in its depths. Osric rushed them, slicing through them like a hot knife through butter. Vengarl barely even had time to draw his blade.

They came to a junction. Osric led them left, towards the stairs. At their top, a man heard them approach, turning to face them. He had white hair and eyes like chips of ice, and strapped to his left arm was a shield polished to a mirror shine. Vengarl saw his own reflection in it.

He looked old.

"What happened down there?" Victor Schnee asked.

"It's best if you don't know," Osric said. "Get us out of here."

Victor nodded. "This way," he said, leading them into a servant's corridor.

As they went, Vengarl heard the stomp of soldiers' boots. The guards were being mobilised. It would have been nigh impossible to escape if not for Victor's knowledge of the palace. He led them through a maze of winding corridors, up and down spiral staircases, ducking into deceptively deep alcoves and storage closets to avoid the guards. Eventually, they emerged into an armoury.

"We're two stories up," Victor said, gesturing to the window. "Nothing aura can't handle. The king's private garden is below; it should be only lightly guarded. You can work your way to the ramparts from there, then down into the city proper."

Osric nodded, then shook the man's hand. "Thank you. I won't forget it."

"I'd rather you did. This never happened."

"Very well," Osric said. "But know you have my gratitude." Then he leapt through the window and disappeared.

Vengarl wet his lips. "Did you find—"

"They're in Eleum Loyce. That's all I know."

Vengarl breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you."

From outside the armoury, they heard the pounding of boots approach. Victor glanced back. "You should go."

/-/

"How're you feeling, sir?"

Vengarl smiled. "Nora, I swear to whatever god you hold dear, don't call me that or I'll…" He trailed off, sighed, then said, "It's good to see you again."

The door opened, and Jaune stepped back inside. "General Ironwood's on his way down. How're you feeling, sir?"

Vengarl pursed his lips. "Did you plan this?"

Nora did her best to look innocent. "Plan what?" Jaune asked.

Vengarl chuckled. It turned into a cough quickly enough.

Truth was, he felt pretty good. He knew it had a lot to do with the IV drip in his arm, though. He felt calm, yes, and tranquil, but also weak. Tired.

"I'm alright," Vengarl said. "What happened? The painting, Watts…?"

"It's fine. Apparently he reached the painting, but Solaire followed him in… somehow, and killed him."

"Solaire?"

"You haven't met him," Ren said. "He's a—"

"Get him in here. Now."

"Huh?"

"Do as I say. I'll explain when—" Vengarl coughed and thumped his chest. "I'll explain when Ironwood gets here. But I must speak with him."

"Solaire's resting. He broke a rib," Jaune said.

Vengarl masked a scowl. "Very well. Later, then. How far away is James?"

"Fifteen minutes, maybe."

Vengarl tried to push himself upright. Ren was on his feet in an instant to help him. "Well, you ought to tell me what I missed."

/-/

"Here!" Ruby hissed, ducking behind a half-finished building.

She held her breath, listening closely for the knight's footsteps. She heard nothing, and pressed herself against the wall to creep her way along the building, Blake following closely. They were getting closer to the gates. Once they were out of Oniyuri, they'd be able to escape into the woods. Yang, an alley behind, peered around a corner, then began to dash across.

The wall above them exploded. The figure in black armour burst through it, dust and drywall billowing skyward. The blade in his hands arced downwards towards Ruby.

She and Blake scattered. Yang skidded to a halt. A glyph propelled Weiss to intercept, Myrtenaster flashing for the slot in his visor. For all his size, he was shockingly nimble and ducked her strike. His left hand darted out to trip her, and she hopped over it. The movement upset her rhythm, however, and she spent a precious moment correcting herself with another glyph.

Ruby darted to the side, drawing Crescent Rose and swiping for his leg, then danced back up the alley towards main street. Now they'd been found, it was pointless to flee. Their best bet had been to leave him thinking they remained in Oniyuri while they put distance between them and him, but it was too late for that now. It was time to stand and fight. They weren't far from one of the city squares; they'd be able to outflank him there.

Yang moved in, her arms buckling as she caught his sword on her bracers. His blow skidded to the side, lodging his blade in the ground, but he used it as an anchor to throw himself forwards, narrowly avoiding Crescent Rose's follow-up sweep. A second, smaller sword came free from his belt to slash at Yang. She ducked and twisted, aiming a punch for the gap under his breastplate, but was unprepared for him to shoulder-check her with enough force to throw her backwards into the courtyard's central fountain. A burst of her semblance put Ruby between him and her sister, and Crescent Rose swung for the man's neck. He jerked backwards, pulling his sword loose from the ground as he did so, then brought the weapon around in an overhead swing. Ruby disappeared in a burst of rose petals.

Blake came in next, letting a flurry loose on his armoured—but open—back. He paid her no mind, swatting behind him with his smaller blade. With her semblance, she dodged away from it with ease, but his sword caught on some drywall, spraying dust into her face. She staggered away, coughing.

But he was unprepared for Weiss.

This time, the glyph appeared beneath him, and her flying kick sent him crashing through a wall. He rolled, then came up on his feet, resuming a fighting stance—but did not approach. His helmet had fallen off with his landing, and now Ruby could see his face. He was pale, his skin thin and taut over his skull. His eyes seemed not just tired, but _exhausted_ , as if he'd not slept for a hundred years.

"We have no quarrel with you," Weiss said.

"Who are you?" Ruby asked.

His stance relaxed. His shoulders heaved with short, clipped laughter. "Do you not remember me?"

She did. He'd challenged Artorias on the airship, back at Beacon. "You should be… you fell. You fell for miles."

"I did."

"What do you want with us?" Yang asked.

"With you? Nothing." He pointed his blade at Blake. "Nor you. The Schnee is… curious. But inconsequential."

"Excuse me?"

"But _you_." He stepped forwards, his focus on Ruby. "My orders are to take either you or your eyes. Which would you prefer?"

"I'm not going anywhere."

The man's eyes narrowed, and he charged back into the fray.

He was good. Better than they were, certainly. Only Crescent Rose had the stopping power to do any significant damage through his armour—Ember Celica splashed off the metal like water off stone, while Gambol Shroud and Myrtenaster barely scratched it. He was faster than he looked, but not so fast as to dodge everything. He didn't _need_ to. And, while the team was nimble enough to avoid most of his strikes, those that did land had enough strength to send them flying.

But though he was stronger individually, they were not fighting as individuals; an overreaching swing at Yang left him open—a glyph appeared in the air, and the white-and-blue Boarbatusk that emerged from it slammed itself into the knight's face, dazing him for a precious, vital second. His aura control waned for the briefest moment, and Myrtenaster found a chink in his armour under his left arm. The blade sunk deep into him, sliding between his ribs, straight where his heart ought to be.

Weiss' eyes widened.

But he did not fall.

He grunted, turned to face her—then, while she was stunned, swung overhead at her with his larger blade.

"Weiss!"

She collected her wits too late. The weapon caught her collarbone with a sickening _crunch_ and sent her rolling across the courtyard, her aura shattered with a single, mighty blow. Blood began to seep through the top of her dress. The Boarbatusk she'd summoned faded away.

Ruby, Blake, and Yang backed away, shocked. The man stuck his huge blade into the ground, then reached under his arm and tore the rapier free. Blood dripped and smoke billowed from the wound. Aura rushed in to heal it. He rolled his left shoulder.

"You should all be commended. I have not suffered such a wound in many years, but…" He gripped Myrtenaster with both hands and _strained—_

The sound of metal cracking echoed throughout the abandoned city.

"You are powerless."

He tossed the shards of Myrtenaster aside and took up his weapon again.

"The wound should not be fatal, if she is given rest and her aura recovers quickly. But I do not wish to see her dead, nor do I want to waste time. Do you surrender, little Rose?"

Ruby hesitated. Her eyes darted to Weiss.

"You _bitch!"_ Yang charged in, her semblance trailing flames behind her. Her first punch was aimed square at his chest—with her enhanced strength, she blew him backwards into a wall.

She gave chase.

"Yang! Calm down!" Ruby felt exhausted already. She'd only taken two, maybe three blows, but each had drained her aura significantly. Blake moved forwards to back up her partner.

Yang's next punch took out a chunk of the wall next to him as he narrowly sidestepped it. The third caught him on his left shoulder, eliciting a grunt of pain. But already her semblance's effects were wearing off; he headbutted her to the ground, then spun to defend himself from Blake, narrowly parrying and deflecting her opening flurry.

He snarled and drove his greatsword into the ground. The dust embedded in it ignited a shockwave in the air, sending Blake flying backwards, and he tore the weapon free again to approach Ruby.

Her defence was slowed by exhaustion, while he seemed tireless; still, she fended him off admirably, backstepping with every deflection. A spinning horizontal strike she attempted in retaliation caught on his breastplate, and she fired off a heavy-calibre shot into his gut at point-blank. It punched a hole in his armour, and his aura pulsed. While Crescent Rose was locked in place, he raised his sword to strike her like he'd struck Weiss—

From the edge of Ruby's vision came a blur of white and black and grey and red. It tackled the knight away from her before they rolled apart.

Qrow Branwen rose to his feet.

/-/

"When the world began, four relics appeared to humanity, embodying our four greatest strengths. Knowledge went to Mistral, while three immortals claimed the other three relics. Salem, the undying first immortal, claimed Choice. Oz, the many-faced, claimed Creation. And Gwyn, who, like his children, possessed the power of reincarnation, claimed Destruction. Ozpin claims they were given to us by gods of light and darkness," Vengarl said.

"The power of the relics drove back the Grimm, and they formed the kingdoms of Vale and Vacuo. Gwyn ruled Vacuo and coveted the other relics, and, when word spread of the kingdom of Mistral, he sent his son, Malgwyn, to retrieve Knowledge.

"Upon coming to Mistral, Malgwyn rebelled. When he returned to Vacuo, he would not give up the relic, and so he was exiled. He led other dissenters north, here, to Solitas, and formed the kingdom of Mantle.

"Gwyn was furious. He declared war on Mantle. Salem and Oz, the sovereigns of Vale, supported different sides. Oz backed Vacuo. Salem backed Mantle.

"In the final battle of the war, Gwyn would not wield the relic against his own son. He killed Malgwyn with a lesser blade, but in the chaos, Salem took Destruction and struck down Gwyn. He fell, and never rose again. Oz feared that Salem would turn on him next and constructed the Ringed City, another world powered by Creation and created to contain his enemies. Gwyn and his relic were buried in the Painted World of Ariamis and locked away to all but the children of Gwyn and those who held its key. The world continued to turn.

"But, many, many centuries later, war broke out again. The Great War. Humanity threatened to destroy itself. And Oz—then King Osric of Vale—decided that any alternative was preferable. He sought out the relics and used them to end the war, but when he wielded Destruction, Creation weakened, and Salem broke free of her prison. Watts, Cinder, the Fume Knight—they are all her agents in her crusade against Ozpin."

Ironwood frowned. "When you say Oz, the 'many-faced'—"

"Ozpin is immortal. When his body dies, his soul seeks out a young, like-minded host. No, I do not know where he is now."

Jaune's brow was furrowed. "So this—Beacon, Watts, Cinder—it's all just some petty squabble between immortals? Why are _we_ involved? Why did Pyrrha—?"

"Because Salem doesn't care who gets in her way. She is immortal, and sees no value in a life that can end."

"Salem didn't put Pyrrha in Cinder's path," Ren said. "You did. You, and Ozpin, and—"

"And me," James whispered. "I didn't know. I thought—I knew about the maidens, but…"

"Would you do anything differently?" Vengarl asked. "Regardless of Ozpin and Salem, the maidens' powers would still be dangerous in the wrong hands. There was no choice. You must believe me. Ozpin has always been on your side."

"But she's gone." Jaune sighed and clenched his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Maybe it's shitty of me, but if all this is just some spat between Ozpin and this Salem, I think we have a right to get a little personal too. Pyrrha is gone. She isn't coming back. It's not fair that they can't die, but they throw us at each other to die instead."

"I understand. Believe me, I understand."

"She kissed me, Vengarl. Before she died, she kissed me. And I'll never know if we could have been happy together, but I'm damned sure she'd have been better off alive than dead."

"I've lost people too."

"Like who!?" Jaune snarled. "This Lucatiel you never talk about? Did my great-great-grandfather die for Ozpin too? Who the fuck is Pharis? Who are they? If they matter to you, why don't you—"

"Silence!" Vengarl's raised his voice, and the word grated against his throat. He coughed, breathed deeply, then resumed speaking a little more calmly. "Pyrrha made her choice, Jaune. She may not have had all the context, but she was told the risk. Believe me, it was more of a choice than Lucatiel or Pharis had. I do not know how Joseph died, but I do not owe you my life story, nor theirs. I have suffered, Jaune. You do not have the right to suggest otherwise."

"You've suffered? You're still here, and Pyrrha isn't."

"Just as you are still here, Jaune."

A strangled sound came from Jaune's throat, then he turned away and made for the door

"Where are you going?" Ren asked.

"I need some air."

Then he was gone.

Vengarl turned his head to Ren and Nora. "I know this is hard on all of you. And I am sorry for my part in it."

Nora shook her head. "Why do you follow Ozpin? If he has taken all these people from you, why do you still follow him?"

"Because it is where I can do the most good."

"I haven't seen much of it." She sighed. "I should find Jaune. Make sure he doesn't do anything stupid. It _is_ a hospital, after all. Plenty he could do wrong."

She departed. Ren pursed his lips. "I never thought I'd see the day that Nora kept others in check."

He met Vengarl's gaze steadily.

"They'll come around," Ren said. "I trust that you, the general, and Ozpin did your best, even if it wasn't enough. It's all we could ask of you."

"You're taking it better than your teammates," James observed.

Ren looked down at the floor. "I have lost people before. I have thought long about what I would do if I lost others. I don't think Jaune has had that perspective. And, though Nora and I share much of our lives and our experiences, I do not think she has ever dwelled on it. You have the benefit of the doubt, Vengarl, at least from me, but for the time being I should be with my team." He stood.

"Thank you, Ren," Vengarl said.

Then Vengarl and the general were alone.

"If only the children of Gwyn may enter the painting—"

"I should be the one to speak to Solaire," Vengarl said. "You have known him in this life, but I have known him in others."

James nodded. "I'll make sure he knows to come see you as soon as he wakes. What happens now?"

"Honestly? I don't know," Vengarl said. "I'm not as sharp as I once was."

"What of Qrow? Artorias? Glynda?"

"Qrow and Team Ruby were heading for Mistral to follow up on the attack at Beacon. If Ozpin has reincarnated, he will be on his way to meet them. Artorias was returning to Vacuo to seek June's counsel. Glynda knew only as much as you did."

Ironwood nodded. "Do you think there will be another attempt on the painting?"

"I do. Destruction might be the most important of all the relics to Salem's plans. It's the one weapon in all of Remnant that could kill Ozpin for good."

"Could it not kill her too? Shouldn't we use it against her?"

Vengarl was old. Tired. Half-dead already. This was not his fight. Not anymore.

But, though he would not lie, those who were still in it needed some hope.

"It cannot harm her," Vengarl said. "Or at least, it could not at the end of the war. But she was contained for thousands of years. She could be contained again. But we need Ozpin."

"What aren't you telling us?" James narrowed his eyes. "I know you left Ozpin's side for many years. Why?"

Vengarl covered his surprise with a cough. "I am… tired. I should rest."

"Not yet."

Vengarl sighed. He did know more. More than Ozpin had ever told him. Jinn, after all, was far more honest than the professor had ever been. But, at the end of the day, he believed Ozpin's cause was… not _just_ , perhaps. But better than the alternative.

He had fought long and hard for the right to die.

Vengarl sighed. "He lied to me. A lie, at the time, I thought unforgiveable. I returned because I learned the truth—the whole truth—and Ozpin demonstrated to me he was willing to own up to it," Vengarl said. "There's more that could—perhaps should—be said. But they are secrets I will take to my grave."

James didn't seem convinced, but, after a moment, he nodded and stood. "I'll let you rest."

* * *

 **While the Painted World gave the exposition on Solaire's situation, from my perspective, the 'make or break' moment of his arc will be the reunion between Vengarl and 'Lucatiel'. That was supposed to be in this chapter, but I needed Vengarl to get a bigger focus away from Solaire first.**

 **Especially because Vengarl is the latest in a not-insignificant of characters to disclose a version of the creation myths, and I felt it was important to let it sit as the ending note because the discrepancies between his story and Ozpin's/June's are important.**

 **Anyway, next chapter (whenever that is) will be focusing on the second half of Raime vs RWBY (RIP Myrtenaster), and Artorias, Roman, Neo, and Ana.**


	65. Chapter 64: Strength

**I know I said we'd get more Raime this chapter, but thematically he always works best alongside Vengarl's arc. So no Raime yet.**

 **I don't think you'll mind. Not to toot my own horn, but it's a good chapter.**

* * *

"Leave it to us, ma'am. We'll see about getting your friends back."

Quelana pushed back her hood and ran a hand through her hair. "I'm a huntress, sir. We just need an airship."

"You've got better luck swimming to the Bastille then flying, ma'am."

The Asago town guard barracks were quiet. The man—the 'sheriff' as he styled himself—she was talking to was vaguely overweight. Even if he'd been Spruce gods-damn Willis, there was no way she was trusting him to get Artorias back.

"Is there an airship here?" she asked. "Anywhere in town?"

"We have one for medical emergencies. No hospital here, so we take 'em to the capital."

"Well, this is an emergency."

"Doesn't look like a medical one. We'll see what we can do. You just rest now, girly. Looks like you've had a long week."

She bit her lip. Ma'am was fine. Girly was… patronising. "One last thing. Do you know anyone named Quelara?"

"Nice girl. About your height? Dirty blonde, a few scales around the eyes?"

Ana's eyes widened. Aside from the part about her being 'nice', that sounded like her. "Do you know where she is? She's my sister."

"Came through, well, almost two years ago now. Or maybe closer to one and a half. A while, anyways. We brought her in for public intoxication, but we let her go in the morning. No charges or anything. Real sweet girl, that one."

"Do you know where she went?"

"Further north, I think. To the capital."

Ana nodded. "You've… actually been helpful. Thanks."

She turned to go. When she stepped outside, Neo was waiting for her.

"You got the keys?" Ana asked.

Neo nodded and jangled them in her pocket.

It'd taken a little bit to realise that the girl was mute. Ana's compromise had been to exchange their scroll details so she could communicate with text, but even then she only used emoticons, which was extremely frustrating. The only thing she'd actually typed out had been her name, and it'd taken a lot of prompting.

Neo pursed her lips, looked up, then pointed in a seemingly random direction.

"You're going to have to be more specific. Was someone watching?"

The shorter girl huffed, then took out her scroll and brought up the compass app. She was pointing north.

"No, that wasn't just a distraction. My sister and I… look, it's a long story." Ana set off for the inn. "I need to catch up on some sleep."

Neo tapped her wrist.

"We won't be stealing it until nightfall anyway, and I've been running on four hours a night at most for, like, a week. Don't rush me, okay?"

She pouted, then nodded.

/-/

"Raven wants to see you, Wolf."

The door to the cell opened, and a man in intricate armour of boiled leather and red cloth beckoned Artorias out. His voice was gruff, showing his age—maybe fifty or sixty—with a hint of a Mistrali accent bleeding through. Strapped to his back was a large, curved blade. Artorias was sure he'd not been at the raid on the train. His large pauldrons cut a distinctive silhouette.

Artorias glanced to Roman, then rose to his feet. "What does she want?"

"There's not much in the form of rules here, child, but if Raven wishes to speak with you, you speak with Raven. Come." He stepped aside to let Artorias pass.

"It's a wonder you lot haven't been rounded up and killed," Roman muttered. "Or at the very least fallen to infighting. I wonder how long you'd last without her."

"We have lasted many generations before her, and we will last many generations after her." The man grabbed Artorias wrists and shackled them as he stepped out, then shut the door. Through the small window, he said to Roman, "I don't expect a thief to understand the value of strength."

Roman let out a bark of laughter. "Tell her I said hello, would you?" His voice echoed down the hall.

As he was led down the corridor, Artorias saw a few faces peeking through the slits on the doors, watching them curiously. Other prisoners. He wondered how many were for 'entertainment' and if any were being held at ransom.

The corridors were lit at first by torches on the walls, then by dust fixtures. He was led up a spiral staircase onto the wall, from which he could see the towers of the Bastille looming over the island, their walls crumbling with age, and below the sheer cliffs dropping into Lake Matsu. Crumbled ruins of a bridge, little more than supporting columns lifting out of the water, marched towards the western shore, and within the walls, he could see a pit through holes in the ceiling. An arena.

 _Must be the entertainment._

Deeper into the Bastille they went, through large dining halls and sparring rooms and barracks, where the tribe seemed at home. Some jeered at him. Vernal had apparently worked out how his gauntlet worked, and was using the shield as an oversized dinner plate. She grinned as he went past and waved with a leg of chicken.

That stung a little.

Eventually, he was brought to one of the lower floors of the main keep—though, with the keep having partially collapsed, it was in fact the top floor. But he was sure it hadn't always been. The roof had caved in, but a thick canvas had been stretched across the ceiling to keep the rain out. Against one wall, hidden slightly behind a curtain, was a small bed. A map of Remnant drawn on parchment was stretched against the back wall, and beneath it, a desk strewn with papers.

The décor was otherwise rather mismatched; a lush rug in the patterns and colours of the Eora nomad tribe; a table that sat low in the traditional Mistrali style; a beautifully decorated ceramic tea set that could have been taken from any of the Anima settlements west of the swamps.

Sitting at the low table, sipping at her tea, was Raven. Her mask had been set aside, and sat on the desk beneath the map—alongside Artorias' armour.

"Thank you, Shiva," she said, setting her tea down. "Uncuff him."

Shiva obliged. "Will there be anything else?"

She shook her head.

Shiva departed. Artorias watched Raven warily. With the mask gone, her resemblance to Qrow was unmistakable. The same wild black hair, the same mischievous red eyes, the same half-cocked smile.

It was rather disarming.

"Sit," she said, gesturing to the cushion across the table.

"I'd rather not."

"I insist. Tea? You're from Vacuo, correct? It's the last of our desert sage brew."

"Looks like you steal a lot from Vacuo for someone living in Anima." Artorias sat across from her.

"The people of Vacuo value strength and resilience. I respect that. As a general rule, I pay my fair share when I visit." She poured him a cup.

"Unless someone slights you?"

"It's the Vacuo way." She gave that little half-smile again, and it was like he was talking to Qrow for a second. "But you're a long way from home."

"I'm actually from Vale. But I've lived in Vacuo for three years now."

"But I don't think I'm wrong to say that Vacuo is your home," she said. "I know where your armour comes from. That _is_ yours, correct?"

He nodded, narrowing his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"Did you steal it?" she asked.

"It was a gift."

"From Gwynevere?"

Artorias' shoulders tensed up. He did his best to mask it by raising his mug and taking a sip of his tea. It was a similar brew to the one Ana liked—herbal, bitter, yet refreshing.

"I doubt they told you everything," Raven said offhandedly. "The Maidens, I'm sure—I know what happened at Beacon. If you're June's agent, perhaps a little about reincarnation, no?"

"What is it you want?"

"I don't care who wins. It could be Ozpin, it could be Salem. But I've been in your shoes. Everybody deserves a chance to get out."

"Even your brother?"

"I've given him far more than one chance, despite myself."

Artorias crossed his arms. Raven sipped at her tea, then poured herself some more. "Ozpin said that Salem doesn't care who dies, as long as Ozpin dies too," he said.

"Come now. You think that's all Salem wants? Ozpin has always played loosely with the truth. Not even June knows everything—and she's been with him since almost the very beginning."

"I know that Salem was trapped in the Ringed City, and that Ozpin accidentally released her. I _know_ she is a monster of his making—but that doesn't make her any less of a monster. The world will burn so she can get her hands on Ozpin and the relics. Beacon already has."

"I wouldn't call her a monster. But I digress." Raven leaned back, bracing herself against the floor with one arm. "You're at a point where they—where Ozpin—is asking you to give your life to his cause. More importantly, you're at a point where it feels like they've told you every secret, and it seems like his cause is just. Am I wrong?"

"At least he cares if we live or die. Salem doesn't. That's not somebody I'd want to have the relics."

"There's nothing I could tell you—that I could _prove_ to you, at least—that you don't already know. So, instead, I'll ask you to take a leap of faith. If you agree to join the tribe, I'll tell you everything, proof be damned. I'll tell you why Ozpin and Malgwyn and Gwynevere can reincarnate. Why Salem and Patches cannot die."

"Who's Patches?"

She smirked. It was a familiar look, but he couldn't place it as Qrow. It took him a moment to work out why.

She looked like Yang.

Artorias frowned. "Ozpin said it was a mystery even to him."

"Ozpin is a practiced liar."

He sighed. "I won't join a group of murderers and thieves on a leap of faith, of all things. If you won't give me a better reason, I'm going to have to turn you down."

She shrugged. There was a flicker of disappointment, but he could tell she'd gotten what she wanted. She'd put disbelief in his mind. No, doubt—a similar concept, but an important distinction.

She called for Shiva to escort him back to his cell.

/-/

Neo circled high over the Bastille. It'd been frightfully easy to steal the airship, but then, law enforcement outside the capitals was always a mixed bag. She supposed they'd gotten lucky. Or unlucky that it hadn't just been given to them.

Ana couldn't fly an airship—had never had the opportunity to learn—but Neo could, at least. Looking down, she couldn't see a place to land. The bandit had been right. Sheer cliffs all around the island, and any ceiling that looked large enough for the airship to land on did not look nearly strong enough to support its weight. This airship was a model from Mistral, and it could land on the water, but they doubted they'd be able to climb the cliffs, and it'd take a while to get in the air again if they were attacked by Grimm.

"Got any ideas?" she asked.

Neo took her hand off the joystick—which Ana assumed was fine—and reached for her parasol. She unfurled it, then mimed jumping.

"Okay, but I can't fly this thing," she said. "And I'm really not feeling comfortable about a landing strategy on those cliffs. So unless you're willing to lend me—"

Neo shook her head vigorously, turned back to the controls and began pointing to various levers, nobs, wheels, and joysticks.

"I don't understand."

Neo rolled her eyes and searched under the dashboard, plonking a user manual down on top of it a moment later.

"I feel like this is a really bad—"

Neo was already gone. Ana almost called her back, then her eyes widened as the ship began to tilt. She got in the pilot's chair, grabbed the joystick, and flipped open the book, praying she wouldn't immediately crash.

/-/

"What did she want?" Roman asked, rolling his arm and massaging the joint.

"A tea party."

Arty wasn't sure how long it'd been—it was hard to read the passage of time—but when he'd come back to the cell, Roman had been asleep. Apparently he was awake now, though.

"Oh, ha." The thief rolled his eyes. "Did you at least say hi for me?"

"Is that a serious question?"

"Do I look like I'm joking?"

"Always," Arty said. "Your hair's as bright as a clown's."

"And you have the hair of an old man." Roman crossed his arms. "I knew her for all of five minutes back in the day. No hope getting any sympathy out of her for it, but hell if I'm not going to have a laugh at her expense."

"You knew Raven?"

Roman nodded. "I fought her in the solo round of my first ever Vytal Tournament. I was a first year and she was in her senior year, so, you know, I lost. But we were… amicable. Nodded to each other in the halls. That sorta thing. I like to think I held up pretty well for a street rat." He shook his head, grinning. "Always funny how these things come around."

"You're a huntsman?"

He reached for his cigar, then remembered it was useless without his lighter and scowled. "No."

"What changed?"

"I grew up. Heroics are for suckers."

The cell door swung open. Vernal stood in the corridor, with a few other guards.

"Time for the entertainment," she said.

There were four of them in all, at least for today: Artorias, Roman, a burly man in ragged clothes who barely looked like he could fight, and a tall woman in boiled leather with sharp eyes. Vernal led them to a room gated off from the pit Artorias had seen earlier. His armour lay on a table, next to his sword and gauntlet. Roman picked up his cane and inspected the barrel.

"No rounds," he muttered.

Artorias picked up his breastplate. Vernal leaned against the wall, her helmet under her arm. "Raven said you could have it back. She doesn't want it around, apparently."

"And my weapons?"

She grinned.

Artorias strapped his armour on, piece by piece. When he reached the gauntlet, he grimaced. "It's greasy."

"Heh. Yeah. I just wanted to see your face."

Artorias and Roman shared a look. The burly man had picked up a club—more of a plank, really. The tall woman was adjusting the grip on a well-worn bow. It wasn't anything special—he guessed she'd been a hunter before the tribe had descended on her home.

"So, what happens out there?" the tall woman asked. "Do we just hack each other to pieces?"

"All you four need to do is survive until our champion's semblance runs out," Vernal said. "If you manage it, you go back to your cells, and we might slip you some ale or something. I dunno, we play the whole 'rewards' thing by ear, seeing as it doesn't happen often, but getting to live is a pretty decent reward. If you die—which you probably will—we get a good show."

"Four on one?" Roman raised an eyebrow. "I like our chances."

"If you say so," Vernal said. "We just need to get her ready, then we'll crack this gate open and the slaughter can start. Enjoy yourselves."

She left out the back entrance and locked the door behind her.

"Well," Artorias said. "At least we don't have to kill each other."

"Thank the gods." The burly man's forehead was beaded with sweat. "I should have just stayed behind the house."

"How'd you end up here, big man?" Roman asked. "You don't exactly look like a fighter."

"I saw them kill my dad. He was the guard captain. I'm not a fighter or anything, though. I just… I got so angry. Grabbed the first thing I saw and bashed her—the bitch, you know, _her—_ over the back of the head before she noticed me." He gestured with the plank. "Knocked her out. The others surrounded me, but she was so… I dunno. She decided this would be more fun, I guess."

"Okay, yeah, you're useless," Roman dismissed. He turned to the woman. "What's your story?"

"I was coming back from a hunt, and the village was on fire. Shot three from the treeline before Vernal pinpointed my position, and now I'm here."

"Either of you know anything about this champion?" Artorias asked.

"My cellmate said he was a monster. Like a Grimm. Then he died," the burly man said.

"Clearly not. Vernal mentioned a semblance," Roman said. "I've heard of a few with Grimm-like effects. Fangs like a Beowolf, claws like an Ursa, that sorta thing."

The burly man rubbed the back of his head. "I don't know what a semblance is."

"We're doomed." Roman ran a hand through his hair.

"Okay, what's your name?" Artorias asked.

"Tomas."

"And yours?"

"Simone."

"Roman and I are huntsmen—"

Roman scoffed.

"—we'll protect you, okay?" Artorias said. They both nodded. "Do you have aura?" Simone nodded. Tomas shook his head.

"He's cannon fodder, then," Roman said.

"Shut up, Roman. Tomas, do you know what aura is?"

He nodded.

"I'm going to unlock it for you. It'll help keep you alive. Is that okay?"

"Artorias, that's a bad god-damn idea."

"Shut up, Roman."

"What did I _just_ tell him?" Roman muttered, pacing near the back of the room.

Tomas nodded. Artorias glanced back to Roman, then placed a hand on Tomas' shoulder.

The words came easier this time, now that he knew what to say. He could feel his aura flowing out of him, surging forwards like a tidal wave, pushing against the walls that sealed the other man's away. Simone watched curiously as the walls were illuminated in cobalt blue and pale green.

Then he fell silent, and the light dimmed. He took a step backwards, almost involuntarily. The effort had drained him. He didn't have his scroll with him, but he guessed he was down to fifty, maybe forty-percent.

Manageable. Not ideal, but manageable.

From outside the gates, he could hear the tribe gathered, chanting a single syllable over and over again. The gate shuddered, then slowly began to rise.

"You shouldn't have done that," Roman muttered, grabbing him by his cloak and dragging him out into the arena.

"I just need a moment—"

 _"Sif! Sif! Sif! Sif! Sif!"_ the tribe chanted, their voices falling on them from the platforms above like rain.

Tomas rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck. His poor aura control made sparks dance on the surface of his skin. Simone nocked her bow. Roman reached for another cigar then grimaced. Artorias deployed his shield. While he caught his breath, he'd need it to cover himself.

 _"Sif! Sif! Sif!"_

The gate crashed shut behind them. Ahead, another began to rise. A wolf, of all things, stepped out, her fur matted with blood and mud, torn away in places, so thin that her ribs showed through the skin. With every step, silver aura flowed over her body, and she _grew_ before their very eyes, taller and taller, her fangs larger and larger and sharper, until she stood before them, crouched and ready to pounce, twice Artorias' height at the shoulder and saliva drooling from her mouth.

"Of course the wolf has a semblance," Roman said wearily. "What else is new?"

Sif sniffed the air, then she turned towards Artorias.

His shield smelled vaguely of chicken.

High above, Vernal gave him a thumbs up.

Sif pounced, and the tribe cheered. Artorias caught her jaws on his shield, but she yanked it from his grip, her strength immense, and threw it aside. He dove away and she bit into the mud where he'd stood—he rolled to his feet and stepped backwards, sword drawn, and slammed his fist into his chest.

"Come on!" he roared. He could keep her attention while the others whittled away her aura—semblances were fuelled by aura, so they could cut down on time.

An arrow bounced off Sif's flank. Tomas had moved in to strike, but then ducked away whenever she so much as stepped. Artorias grimaced. He wasn't much use.

Roman wasn't much more either, to be fair—he was getting a few hits in, but his cane didn't provide him with much reach.

Sif leaped backwards with surprising dexterity, landing so she faced Simone, then rushed her, raising up on her hind legs as she approached and slamming them down on top of her. The woman ducked beneath Sif to avoid the blow, then fired an arrow straight up into her belly.

It didn't pierce aura, but Sif winced, and it filtered through Artorias' semblance—

 _Pain. Loneliness. Hunger. Anger. Kill. Eat._

The wolf dashed away, collecting Simone with her hind legs and barrelling her over, her bow flying from her hands. Sif caught the implement in her jaws and snapped it in two, splinters flying everywhere. The tribe cheered. Vernal laughed.

Artorias could only think, _That's a hell of a smart wolf_ , before he realised that she was now racing towards Simone and Tomas—who was helping her to her feet—and Roman was completely content to stand by.

Artorias sheathed his sword on his back and leapt for the wolf as she rushed past, his hands clinging in clumps of fur. She halted her charge abruptly and thrashed about to throw him off. He reached for his dagger before remembering he'd lost it, then promptly lost his grip and crashed against the arena wall.

Spots danced on the edge of his vision. Roman started towards him, but Artorias pointed to Tomas, who'd split from the now-weaponless Simone and had Sif's attention. His aura was dropping fast, and he was being battered around like a plaything. "Help him," Artorias hissed.

"I made a deal with _you_ , Wolf. Not him. He's cannon fodder, for all I care."

"You're gonna have to stop calling me that." Artorias swatted Roman's hand aside and pulled himself up by the wall. "I need a moment. For gods' sakes, _help him!_ "

Simone was doing the best she could, but all she had left were arrows, and they splintered in her hands on the rare occasions she could even try to jab them into the wolf's flank.

Roman pursed his lips. "Fine." He strode towards Sif, twirling his cane, then broke into a run and leapt for her face as her open jaws lunged for Tomas. He struck her square across the nose, and she stumbled sideways, surprised.

Snarling—

 _—anger, hunger, hurt, please, no, please, help me, anger—_

—she turned towards the thief.

Tomas staggered backwards, his aura just about spent already. Roman took his place, his landing going poorly as the wolf more-or-less shoulder checked him. While he was recovering his balance, she dove in, jaws gaping—

And then she bit down.

Roman screamed. His aura flared as she lifted him up, sparking and sputtering as she shook him like a ragdoll. Then Simone rushed in and managed to land a blow to the throat, and Sif spasmed, tossing Roman against the arena wall. His aura shattered, and he fell to the ground, hardly conscious.

"Roman!"

Sif swatted Simone aside, then let out a long howl to the sky—

— _I have nobody—_

 _—_ and stalked towards Roman.

 _—I am nobody—_

Artorias was still dazed. He staggered closer, drawing his sword, but his legs felt like jelly, and his head was spinning. He could hear laughter from above, his pulse in his ears, a buzz, like a fly, that might have just been from hitting his head too hard. Sif was drooling. She was hungry, so hungry. But he couldn't let someone die.

Not even Roman. Though if she ate Vernal, he thought he could live with that. What monster starved a poor animal?

So he did the only thing he could think to do.

He closed his eyes, and he howled back.

He didn't know what it was that Sif heard. He poured everything into his voice. His exhaustion, not because he was tired of fighting or tired of living but because he was tired of being. His loneliness, because Quelana wasn't here and he'd failed her and then he'd failed Ciaran and Gough and Gilderoy and _even Winter_ and what kind of friend was he? His fear that he'd die, here and now, and that he'd never see Quelana again, and _why is that the worst part of dying?_

He didn't know what Sif heard. But he liked to think it was something like, _"I am somebody, and you are somebody, and I hear you."_

Because that was how he felt when Quelana used to pull back her hood and smile and say _I love you_. When Winter would purse her lips and her eyes would start to roll but then she'd stop herself and just raise an eyebrow. When Ciaran said that he was the worst and everything was his fault but then she'd do that grin that told him she only _half_ -meant it.

When Gough looked at him with those big, trusting eyes, and said he believed in him.

 _"I am somebody, and you are somebody, and I hear you."_

Sometimes, it was all anyone needed to hear.

He felt Sif's breath on his face.

* * *

 **Gundyr was a good guess. Thing is, everything we know about Gundyr indicates that at his very worst he's a misguided, insufficiently powerful, but noble soul. Raven's tribe is… rather ignoble to say the least. He wouldn't fit.**

 **Someone rightfully asked who Raven had a bond with to get her back to the Bastille, given that Vernal was at the site of the attack. Shiva is my answer.**

 **I really want to just gush about how excited I've been for Sif for** _ **so long**_ **for the rest of the AN, but that would seriously bloat the word count, soo…**

 **Just know that I'm grinning from ear to ear. It's been a long time coming, and I'm super happy with how it came out.**


	66. Chapter 65: Halgot, Part I

The first thing Weiss noticed when she came around was that her dress was wet. It took a moment to realise she was covered in blood, and another to realise it was hers. She tried to move her right arm, but all she felt was a dull ache.

With her left hand, she pushed herself up, propping her back against the low stone wall behind her, then reached across to feel her right shoulder. She hissed with pain, and her hand came away sticky and red.

She looked down.

She could see shards of bone protruding from the wound. Her collarbone, certainly, but perhaps more; her arm hadn't so much come out of its socket as the socket had been completely crushed.

Her breath quickened. She felt faint.

"Weiss!"

She looked up. Blake was rushing towards her from her right. Towards the middle of the courtyard, near the dried-up fountain, a man with a red cape—Ruby's uncle, she recalled—stood protectively over Ruby. Yang was pulling herself up, a red welt forming on her forehead. And the knight in black was picking himself out of the rubble of a building.

"Qrow," he greeted shortly. "Stand aside."

"Leave my niece alone."

"Their auras are waning, and you cannot hold me alone."

"You've fled from far lesser huntsmen than me, Raime. I'm sure I can manage something."

"And I've slain far greater huntsmen. Huntresses too."

Raime approached once more. Qrow's grip tightened on his sword. Yang cocked Ember Celica. "Get your team out of here, Firecracker. As quickly as you can. I'll catch up."

"We can help."

"You'll only get in the way." He stepped forwards to meet Raime, breaking into a run for the last few steps. Steel crashed against stone, sending sparks glowing in the night.

Blake knelt next to Weiss, her eyes hardening when she saw the wound. "Do you think you can walk?" she asked.

Weiss shook her head. The movement felt floaty and slow—her head felt light.

"I'll carry her." Yang skidded to a halt next to her. "Ruby!" she called. "We need to go!"

Their leader repositioned to another rooftop with a burst of her semblance. Crescent Rose's muzzle flashed, sending a resounding _crack_ across the city. "Go!" she yelled.

Yang cursed, then stooped down to pick Weiss up bridal style. Gravity pulled on Weiss' arm, and pain shot through her. She screamed—then blacked out.

/-/

"Come no closer!"

Vengarl, a young man, armoured in studded red and wearing a helm in the shape of a snarling hound's head, gripped his sword two-handed, the tip pointed towards the Mistrali soldiers that hemmed his unit in.

Halgot Bridge was wide enough for an entire army, but they were only half a dozen facing fifty men or more, and they were backed against the closed portcullis with nowhere to run. The Mistrali forces halted their approach five or six paces away, a phalanx of raised shields and bristling spears, then parted ranks. A knight of the Kingsguard approached, clad all in black armour. On his shield was embossed the image of a blackbird.

"There need not be bloodshed," the Raven Knight said. "Return the king's seal, and you will be treated with honour."

Vengarl shared a glance with Pharis, who had her bow trained on the slit in his visor. He imprinted her face in his mind. Mousy brown hair. Button nose. Pale eyes. After today, Osric would want to keep her in the capital. Keep her safe. He didn't know if he'd see her again.

He turned his attention back to the Raven Knight. "Or we could just kill you all," he suggested. "I think you should stand down. Just in case."

"I bested you at Heide, boy. I won't ask again."

"Neither will I."

The Raven Knight shrugged and drew his sword. The phalanx approached, step by step, closing in around them.

Pharis aimed her bow upwards and fired. Her eyes lit up red, flames the framed her face like wings, and the arrow above her shattered into a thousand shards of ice, raining down on the Mistrali formation.

"Go, go!" Vengarl roared, leading his men forwards while they had the chance. The Raven Knight met his charge, but was so taken aback by the maiden's power that Vengarl barrelled right through him, tossing him back to disappear among his men.

Swords sang. Steel clashed. Blood spilled. Vengarl and his men had the momentum, the advantage, if only for a moment, and they made the best of it, clearing a path as best they could. Pharis remained at the rear of the group, picking off stragglers with her bow. She'd only newly come into the maiden's powers. She couldn't muster much more—not safely, not while friend and foe were so embroiled in the melee.

Vengarl's arms grew heavy. The bridge was slick with blood and bodies. Then he heard a scream from behind him. "Vengarl!"

He turned.

The Raven Knight cut down one of his men with a single stroke of his sword then charged Pharis, shield raised, her arrows slamming into it but doing nothing to slow him down.

The fire returned to her eyes, and fire appeared in her hands. But it was too late. He was too close.

The top of his shield collided with her chest. She flew backwards, a clumsy gust of wind only serving to slam her into the railing rather than to the ground. She gasped for breath as Raime stalked closer. Vengarl tried to fight his way back to her, but it was just him and two others left at this point, the others dead or dying on the ground. He was outnumbered, outmatched, too late, _too late—_

Raime stabbed her through the gut. Then he kicked her, and she fell from the bridge to the clear water of the bay below.

The world went quiet.

 _I'll kill you_ , Vengarl remembered saying. _My face will be the last thing you ever fucking see, I swear it._

He remembered saying that.

Then he came to his senses, alone on a bloodsoaked bridge, surrounded by bodies. All that remained of the Raven Knight was his shield, its blunt edge jammed in the caved-in chest of a Mistrali soldier.

He closed his eyes and pictured a woman with mousy brown hair and a button nose.

A knock on the door startled Vengarl, the frail old man, awake. He breathed deeply and pushed the memory from his mind. "Come in," he called.

A boy with short blond hair stepped through the doorway. He was wearing a hospital gown, but tucked under his left arm was a familiar hat.

Vengarl smiled. "What would you like me to call you?"

"Solaire will do."

The boy sat in the chair at the end of the bed. Bags hung under his eyes. He crossed his legs, one over the other.

"Do you remember me?" Vengarl asked.

"I've never met you before."

"You know exactly what I'm asking."

Solaire averted his eyes, then he nodded. "You're… old. It's surprising."

"And you're young."

"I don't feel it," Solaire said.

"I suppose not," Vengarl said. "Professor Ozpin told me to find you."

"Why?"

"I don't know. Perhaps he thought you'd ally yourself with him again."

"Then why did you come looking for me? Because he asked?"

"I didn't," Vengarl said. "I'm here on the behalf of the council of Vale. Our meeting is chance."

"That's mine." He pointed to Vengarl's sword-belt laying on a chair in the corner. His own weapons were sheathed on it, but also a blade forged in Mirrah long ago. "Even if you weren't looking, you hoped to find me. Didn't you?"

Vengarl nodded. "I did."

"Why?"

Vengarl sighed. "You were my friend."

"I remember that life the least. It feels… distant," Solaire said. "All the others, it's like the memories are mine. Have always been mine. The voices are fading. It's all _my_ voice. But her— _that_ voice…" He hung his head. "It's like it's someone else's entirely, and it just wants to be let out, and I don't know if I can rein it back in when I do. Lucatiel was so broken, at the end."

"Do you remember the end?"

Solaire nodded. "You showed mercy."

"It didn't feel like mercy."

"I wouldn't want to live like that," Solaire said. "And I'm still the same person, I guess. Just… not."

"I wouldn't fear sharing her fate," Vengarl said. "Lucatiel's strength was her greatest weakness. She was… fiercely individual. I admired that about you. But that which does not bend will break."

"Faraam was the same," Solaire said softly. "But I didn't break then. Only when I was Lucatiel. And I faced many of the same trials as both people."

"Faraam's time was before mine. I did not know him. But I believe you." Vengarl propped himself up as best he could and reached for the glass of water on the bedside table. His throat was getting dry. "Perhaps it was Oz's fault, then."

"He asked me to write letters," Solaire said. "Not to anyone in particular. Just to get my memories down so he could find out where I left the painting. I wrote them to Aslatiel… and then to Gwyndolin. Eventually, I couldn't tell the difference."

"Aslatiel?"

"My brother."

Vengarl frowned. "You told me you were an only child."

"Did I?"

"When we were stationed in Mirrah. We met Joseph's sister, and they told us stories about their siblings all night long. But you said you were always lonely growing up, because you had none."

"I remember him clearly. The only thing I had over him was that I unlocked my aura without help. He was better in every other way. Better with the ladies, better with a sword, wittier, smarter, faster… but he died when the fleet sank. Osric remembers him too. He told me he did."

"Wittier than you?" Vengarl hacked out a laugh. "Your humour could be crude and obtuse, yes, but you were never slow."

"Well, it's not hard to impress an idiot," Solaire said quietly. It took him a moment to realise what he said, and his eyes widened. "I didn't mean to—"

"It's fine. That's something she'd say."

Solaire gave an awkward smile. "That, uh, might be the problem."

"It's going to be okay."

"It's not. My head hurts. I can hardly sleep. I just… I think I can handle everything else, but not Lucatiel."

"It's nature against nurture," Vengarl said. "But more than that, it's nature against nurture against nurture against nurture, ad infinitum. You've been raised in hundreds of different ways in hundreds of different bodies. It can't be easy."

"It is, though. You're not listening. It's nature against nurture against _Lucatiel_."

Vengarl sighed and took another sip of his water. "I'd help, but I don't know how."

"I need you—I need _someone_ to work it out. I can't help Osric, or Salem, or _anyone_ until I… until I know what _I_ want to do."

"Would you help Salem?"

"I don't know. I—" He grimaced, then stood. "I need to go. Can I take my sword back?"

"It's yours."

He stepped closer and drew the weapon, inspecting the blade. "Thank you," he said. "I… I don't know if I'll be back. But thanks."

"You're an old friend with a new face. But you're still my friend."

"Yeah. A face." A smirk that was undeniably Lucatiel's crossed his features. He remembered that about her. She never smiled. Never to him, anyway. It was always the smirk.

It was unsettling, to say the least, to see it on his face.

/-/

"Wake up!"

A hand cracked against Weiss' face, and she woke again with a start. "Stay with us!"

"I'm here," she said faintly.

She didn't know how long she'd been out, but she hadn't been moved far. Yang must have put her back down when she'd passed out.

Qrow slammed Raime's sword aside with his own. A tug of a lever hooked Harbinger around the massive stone blade, trapping it against the ground—but Raime let go and drew his shorter blade. If anything, he was even more deadly with it, far more nimble than before but hardly less powerful. Qrow was forced to retreat, failing to catch a particularly powerful stab that, though it bounced off his aura, pushed him backwards, his shoes sliding on the stonework. Raime took a bullet in the back from Ruby, snarled, then turned, using the stone blade he'd left embedded in the ground as a stepping stone to leap atop the building. Qrow was in hot pursuit, a blast of recoil bringing him back into range with inhuman grace. He tackled Raime from behind, and the two fell into the unfinished structure, the scaffolding of the roof crumbling behind them. A blast of Crescent Rose repositioned Ruby on the next building over, and she trained her sights on the building's entrance.

"Ruby!" Yang called. "Come on!"

"Are you okay?" Blake asked.

"Don't move me," Weiss hissed. "It hurts."

"We're not— _I'm_ not leaving you."

The wall exploded outwards, and Qrow was thrown through the cloud of dust. His back slammed into the flat of the Fume Knight's sword, still embedded in the ground, and his aura sparked angrily. Raime staggered after him. Smoke once again billowed from a wound, this one on his throat.

Weiss had had doubts that her strike had pierced his heart. Perhaps she had missed. But this—

He should have been dead.

Twice over.

Three times, if what Ruby had said was true.

Qrow rose to his feet once more.

"We're not in the cities anymore, Qrow," Raime said. His voice, once fair, was gurgly, harsh, gritty. He spat out a wad of blood. "There's no cell to hold me, and death cannot keep me. You should leave while you may. I am not here for you."

Dust and grit had mixed with the sweat on Qrow's face. He wiped it away. "Get out of here, Ruby," he said. "I'll be fine."

Ruby hesitated—then, in a flurry of red, she rushed towards her team.

Qrow readied his weapon as Raime approached once more.

"Can we carry her?" Ruby asked, dropping to her knees next to Weiss.

"We tried."

Weiss pushed herself up with her good arm. Even that limb felt sluggish.

Ruby looked at her hands helplessly.

"I can stop him," Weiss muttered.

"You're in shock. You can't—"

"I can."

Lothric and Lorian only needed her to bring them into the world. Beyond that, they acted of their own accordance. Somehow, they were sustained by their own auras. She couldn't even reliably dismiss them unless they willed it.

All she needed was a spark of her aura.

"Give me your cloak," Yang said. "I'll make her a sling. We'll get you out of here, Weiss. We'll all be okay."

Across the courtyard, Qrow and Raime continued to battle. Qrow's aura was dwindling, but Raime's was finally spent. Yet every wound that pierced his breastplate, every spray of bullets Qrow unleashed only elicited smoke. He would not die. The black fumes enveloped them, hiding their deadly dance.

Weiss grit her teeth and raised her good hand.

Just a spark.

All she needed was a spark.

Usually, Myrtenaster was the conduit for her semblance. It had a rare and valuable geisteel core, an incredible conductor for aura. Without it, she doubted she could manage more than a white glyph, let alone summoning.

But she had to try. She narrowed her eyes in concentration. She wasn't sure if the sweat that beaded on her forehead was from the physical or the mental strain.

A spark. Just a—

The world went dark again.

She opened her eyes and found herself in the desert. Stony ruins jutted out of the sand around her. The wind whipped at her hair, dragging it upwards. A black glyph spun around her feet, feathers marking its edge.

"I thought you stronger than this," said a familiar voice. She turned to look behind her. Lothric and Lorian stood at the top of a dune, completely unaffected by the wind. "You showed such promise. I'm uncertain if I'm relieved or disappointed. Certainly, to fall to one who cannot die—it is a given outcome. But I did think more of you."

"Where am I?"

"I call this place home. It is where souls go after the body has passed. Some call it the Nexus, but others have called it the Deep, the Dream, and the Firelink. The name you choose for it is of little consequence to me," said Lothric.

"…I'm dead?"

"Your heart has stopped and you are no longer breathing, but your brain has yet to entirely shut down, and, until we have concluded this little conference at the very least, I will ensure that the seal of fire cannot take your soul. Half-dead, as they say, is half-alive." Lothric raised a single finger to the sky. Weiss' eyes followed it, and she saw a ring of fire where the sun ought to be, turning endlessly like a wheel, or perhaps like a gear grinding everything beneath it to dust. In its centre was a void, nothingness, a black pit that sucked in everything around it.

It was not the wind pulling her upwards—it was _that_.

"…why?" she asked.

"Have you considered our offer?"

"I… I was desperate. I'm dying."

"Yes, we know."

She turned on the spot, taking in the landscape. Barren. A world scrubbed clean. "Is this death, then? Forever?"

"Not quite."

"What comes afterwards?"

"There are few who know that mystery, and fewer still who would reveal it. I will say that it is peaceful. There will be no 'you' to worry about the world's affairs."

Weiss looked back to Lothric. Time was running out—if time did, indeed, pass here the same as it did for the living.

What choice did she have?

"Can I save my friends?"

"Perhaps." Lorian descended the dune towards her, though Lothric waited at its top. "You are weakened, but you called to us and we still heard. You are fortunate to travel in the company of silver eyes."

"Ruby?"

"A semblance manifests through aura, and yours is truly spent. But the aura is merely the outward expression of a soul, and under certain circumstances the soul alone may fuel a semblance focused inwards. It will not heal you, and it will take its toll, make no mistake, but—"

"What do I need to do?"

"If you live, you will owe us your assistance. And there is another who upsets the cycle of life and death now, beyond the one you called Ozpin."

"Raime? I know, I know, I just need to know how to help them!"

"Raime, yes, though I suspect that will soon be resolved. It is the man of metal who has caught our attention. But we can discuss that later. Your heart beats again. It is time."

Lorian grabbed her hand, and Lothric released the glyph.

Weiss woke up, gasping for air.

/-/

Gilderoy Ornstein was floating.

He was only vaguely aware of his own existence. Only vaguely aware of his damned metal body. His mind drifted, like in a dream. Every thought, every memory seemed distant. Harmless. Like watching somebody else.

General Ironwood was speaking. But he could hardly hear him. He let the words go.

He allowed himself to waft towards the memory of Penny's death, observe it, turn it over in his mind. It was just a blip. Nothing to worry about. Nothing to fear, or be sad about. It was all… nothing.

The day he'd woken up in Polendina's lab.

It wasn't terrifying.

It didn't make him feel like he was suffocating.

It just…

 _Was._

These were things that happened, but happen no longer.

What was the point in grieving? What value was there in caring, for himself or for the world beyond?

The world darkened as his optical sensors shut down. What was the trouble in letting go?

"Mr Ornstein?"

General Ironwood's voice was suddenly very loud.

The world brightened. The light was harsh.

He sat up. He felt like he'd lost something dear to him, though in truth now everything felt _vivid_ and _real_ and _alive._ And painful.

"Can you speak, Mr Ornstein?"

He didn't speak. But he nodded.

"Are you okay?"

It was like the day he'd woken up on the table in Polendina's lab. A sterile room. A strange device sitting over him. General Ironwood was separated from him by a window, but his voice was carried by an intercom in the wall.

It was like being born for a third time.

Part of him wanted to go back, and not have to care about anything ever again.

Part of him knew he was finally himself. More or less.

"What happens now?" he asked.

/-/

"She's not breathing," Blake said.

"Shit, shit, shit." Yang dragged her hands over her face. Ruby laid her hands on Weiss' chest and began compressions. "One, two, three, four…" she counted.

The pavestones were slick with blood. Across the courtyard, they could see nothing but smoke. Qrow came flying out of it, his aura finally broken, and landed in the dried-up fountain, groaning as his head cracked against the stonework. Raime emerged, his gait hobbled, aura broken, blood dripping and smoke oozing from his wounds.

He was like something out of a zombie movie.

"Come on, Weiss. Time to go, time to go, time to go…"

She leaned down to breathe air into his lungs—

When her face was inches away, Weiss' eyes flew open. Ruby jumped backwards in shock.

"Weiss!"

The girl did not move as she ought to. Not as _anyone_ ought to. Aura flared—not blueish white as it should have been, but pale gold. She leapt to her feet, her right arm dangling uselessly at her side, and a glyph—not the Schnee snowflake, but a simple circle garnished with feathers that defied gravity—appeared next to her. From it, she drew a sword, a twisted shard of platinum and flame-scorched steel. She hoisted it onto her left shoulder.

"Weiss?"

She sank into another glyph beneath her, then reappeared in the air above Raime, plunging the weapon downwards. Raime backed away, and the blade split the earth where he stood. Exhaustion seemed to be setting in, but still he tightened his grip on his weapon.

Weiss settled into a low stance, her legs shaking beneath her, right arm hanging listlessly, _dangerously_ , joints limp and loose. The sword returned to rest on her shoulder.

She looked frail, like a cornered animal. But that was always the most dangerous.

"What the hell is going on?" Yang whispered, eyes wide.

"You're going to kill yourself before I ever could. Stand down," Raime said.

Weiss hurled herself to the side and disappeared through a glyph, only to emerge from another behind him, blade singing. He spun on the spot to parry, but she disappeared into another, and another, feinting and attacking from all sides, sweeping her weapon in wide arcs—she seemed incapable of anything more precise—sending him staggering forwards then backwards then to the side, completely disoriented. With every glyph, light shone and spectral feathers floated into the air, calm, peaceful, completely at odds with the violent display they enabled.

Then she came from behind Raime, bracing the hilt of her sword against her body, and drove it through his back. A glyph appeared at the sword's tip, and she shoved both the Fume Knight and her sword through it. Both disappeared.

Weiss turned towards them, smiled—then her legs gave out beneath her.

* * *

 **The theme of this chapter is sacrifice. Pharis didn't reveal the Maiden's power for the mission, she did it because Vengarl was unwilling to surrender. She was a sacrifice to his pride. Weiss, on death's door, knowingly puts her life in further danger to protect her team. Gilderoy gives up his aura.**

 **In his youth, Vengarl had the hound-helm we know from the game. Vernal has it now. No, it didn't occur to me that their names are very similar until long after I wrote her with it. Maybe I'm just dumb.**

 **The mirror image between Weiss losing control of her arm and** _ **Artorias of the Abyss**_ **is completely intentional, and though I've referenced** _ **AotA**_ **before this is the first major parallel. Something I like about this form of crossover fanfic is that something like a broken arm isn't just a signifier that someone's beat up, it's an intertextual stand-in for self-sacrifice and an indomitable will, and it only works as such because there's an assumed knowledge of the source material. Weiss breaks her right arm rather than her left, though, because of her mirror motif.**


End file.
